


You Had Me At The Voldemort Impersonation

by Snappy_Snippets



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Banter, Bisexuality, Children, Crack, Dreams, Drunkenness, Duelling, Explicit Language, Grimmauld Place, HP: EWE, Hermione is being Hermione, Hurt/Comfort, Impersonations, Kreacher grumbles but cares, London, Luna is a miracle, M/M, Metamorphmagus, POV Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Potions, Ron's masculinity is not fragile, Roses, Saviour Complex, Slash, Soho Square, Spooning, Therapy, Wandless Magic, a unicorn because of course there's a (toy) unicorn, a whole list of things Harry thought he'd never see Malfoy do, and it's a long list, baby talk, healing process, letting go of the past, suicide attempt (mentioned), whisky, wizarding pop-up books
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 54,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5315996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snappy_Snippets/pseuds/Snappy_Snippets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts and Harry goes to a party at Luna's, hoping to get sloshed and forget about the fact that he still has completely no idea what to do with his life. Things take a different turn when someone else decides to deal with his own problems by doing a drunken Voldemort impersonation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_The body heals with play, the mind heals with laughter and the spirit heals with joy.  
\- Proverb_

Harry groans and tries to open his eyes. It's proving surprisingly difficult. His eyelids are heavy, as is, in fact, the rest of his body, making him feel like he weighs a ton. Also, there is noise. Shouting. Painful. Ugh. 

The last thing he remembers is leaving Ron and Hermione stargazing on the roof of Luna's house and stumbling downstairs to the bathroom, passing Ginny making out with someone on the stairs. He feels around himself. He seems to be sitting in an armchair. Correction, _lying_ in an armchair. His right leg and left arm are swung over the armrests, dangling heavily. Huh. He must have dozed off. 

He stretches and in the process his left hand comes across something on the floor - he closes his fingers around it and feels a neck of a bottle. Splendid. 

Harry lifts the bottle, squirming to a more upright position and blinks his eyes open. Candles light up the room and there is a dark human-shaped shadow moving in the middle of the floor. The bottle freezes in Harry's lap. He stares. He shakes his head. Ouch. Ugh. Bad move. He blinks a few more times. Is it possible he's so drunk he's seeing things? 

In front of him, with his back turned, swaying dangerously with a half-filled whisky glass in hand is Draco Malfoy wrapped in a black blanket. With his other hand, he's clutching two of the corners of the blanket together against his chest and the heavy black fabric falls down his back, somewhat reminding Harry of a cape, if not for the funny tassels which adorn the edges. 

Harry marvels at the state of his own mind. He will definitely not be missing a topic to discuss in his next therapy session with Mind Healer Averill. 

'Where's my fuckin' tiara!?' Malfoy suddenly bellows, bending over, trying to catch his balance. 'I wanna put on my tiara! And...' he lifts the glass and gestures around with it, 'and... an' write in my journal! Gimme back my journal!'

Harry now knows where the noise has been coming from. Malfoy is standing a few metres away, in front of the sofa, which is occupied by Blaise Zabini and a girl Harry doesn't recognize. They seem to be asleep or simply out of it, but Malfoy continues to direct his drunken bellowing at them. 

'And... oh! Oh! Get me the biggest snake you can find! Yeah, I need... need to comps...' Malfoy stutters, burps and catches the edge of the blanket, whose corner has started slipping from his grasp, 'compet... compen... sate for the lack of... certain... appn... append...' Malfoy burps again. 

Harry snorts. 

Malfoy whirls around, the blanket swirling and his bleary gaze is suddenly on Harry. 

'Oh, look who's back,' Malfoy cooes, staggering forwards. 'The Boy Who Lived... To Make Every Second Of My Fuckin' Life A Fuckin' Disaster,' he bows and raises his glass in a salute. 

Harry grins dazedly and raises his bottle to clink it against the glass. 

Malfoy frowns and stares, surprised for a moment, then tips over his glass, swallows all the contents in one big gulp and slams the glass on the coffee table, nearly falling over in the process. 

Harry takes a sip from his bottle, too and winces as the flat beer hits his taste buds. 

'Oh, eugh...' he complains. 

Malfoy turns towards him, widens his eyes and grips the blanket more firmly. 

'You will not,' he bawls, raising his chin, 'speak to me like tha', boy!' He takes a few wobbly steps towards Harry, pointing his finger at him. 'I wanna see you come to me, wanna see you beg for your life... Don't you know I'm fuckin' obsessed with yo' scrawny arse like I'm a fuckin' teenage girl?'

Harry lets out something remotely resembling a laugh and gapes. It cannot be his own mind creating this, can it? This really is the pointy git. 

Malfoy bends down and releases the blanket, setting his hands on the armrests. His face is hanging inches from Harry's, his eyes dazed. 

'I wanna hear you scream...' Malfoy slurs. 'I wanna smell your fear...' Suddenly he pulls back, standing shakily. 'Oops!' He flings his arms in the air and the blanket slips to the floor. 'I completely forgot! I don't have a nose!' He bends over and laughs, hiding his face in his hands, swaying. Next, he's slipping on the blanket and falling to his knees, all the while giggling on. 

Harry watches him, feeling a smile stretch his lips involuntarily. Talk about ways of dealing with traumatic experiences. 

'D'you need a referral to a Mind Healer, Malfoy? I can recommend someone.'

Malfoy doesn't seem to be listening, however. He quiets down, twisting and sitting on the floor, propped up against the coffee table. He stretches his legs in front of him and stares ahead at nothing with a dazed half-smile. 

Harry hiccups and covers his mouth, squinting. He raises his bottle, looking at the liquid swirling at the bottom and remembers the awful taste. 

''s there more booze?' he asks. 

Malfoy directs his gaze at him, frowning and seems to be processing the question for a moment. 

Harry fleetingly thinks that if Malfoy responds, this will be the first time they talk to each other in almost a year. 

'Yup,' Malfoy finally says and raises his wand. 

Not much in terms of a conversation there, Harry thinks. 

Malfoy points his wand at the door to the corridor and says 'Ac-cio booze'. There is silence. Malfoy lowers his wand, giving it a stern look. 

'Nope,' he says decidedly. 

Harry snorts again. 

Maybe it's for the better, actually. He's probably had enough for now. He is feeling very thirsty, though. 

He looks and feels around for his wand, trying not to move his head too much. Finally, he manages to retrieve it from between the seat cushion and the armrest. He raises it, tips his head back, mutters 'Aguamenti' and opens his mouth. The cold stream hits his tongue and splashes all around his mouth and he swallows, letting the water fall on his closed lips and opening them again to drink more. 

'How... utterly... undigf... undignf...' comes Malfoy's voice from the floor and Harry has never heard anyone try to sneer and fail more miserably. 

After a few more gulps and splashes, he ends the spell, wiping the water from his chin and sending more of it falling on the already wet collar of his shirt. He lowers his head and glances at Malfoy, who is now holding his head back himself, eyes shut, the tip of his wand in his mouth, lips closed tightly around it. Harry frowns. Malfoy seems to be sucking. His throat moves as he swallows. Harry stares. 

Malfoy removes the wand, opening his eyes and exhaling loudly. He looks up at Harry, eyes narrowing. 

'What?'

Harry blanks. 'What?'

Malfoy frowns, a confused look on his face. 

Yeah. Again, not much in terms of a conversation there. 

Harry relaxes back into the armchair and lets his eyes close. The swirling in his head has somewhat subsided, but he is still feeling very heavy. So tired... Sleepy... 

When he opens his eyes, he is feeling a bit more clear-headed, Blaise and the girl are gone and the only other person in the room is the snoring Malfoy on the floor in front of him. Harry files away 'snoring Malfoy' as one of the many things he never thought he would see in his life, but yet he has been granted the dubious privilege of being exposed to. 

Harry looks at Malfoy more carefully. Huh. Add 'Malfoy sitting in a puddle of water' to the list. Malfoy's arm is hanging loosely at his side, hand on the floor and the wand entwined in his fingers is oozing a steady stream of water to the now-soaked blanket and some of the floor. 

'Malfoy', Harry croaks. 

Malfoy doesn't move. 

'Malfoy!' Harry yells and his throat rebels, making him cough. 

Malfoy stirs, moves his wand hand to his lap and after a moment the water stops as he opens his eyes slowly. He looks down at himself. He tilts his head. He frowns. He stares at his lap. His trousers are drenched. 

'Huh,' Malfoy says. 

''s not piss,' Harry offers helpfully. 

Malfoy looks at him, then raises his wand to eye-level. 

'I think I dreamt of drinking water,' he says faintly. 

'Sleep-casting,' Harry muses. 

Malfoy snorts and starts spelling his trousers and the area around himself dry. Harry watches him. Having finished, Malfoy raises his head and his eyes narrow again. 

'What?' Harry asks. 

'What?' Malfoy snaps at the same moment. 

Harry groans. 'Jesus, this is going nowhere.'

Malfoy scoffs. 'What did you expect? A friendly hug?'

Suddenly Harry remembers the last of the trials, how tired he was after days of answering questions, retelling events and clarifying details and what Malfoy's back looked like in the Atrium of the Ministry as it receded quickly through the crowd parting before him. Not a word. Not about the testimony. Not about passing on his wand back to him. 

Harry remembers being furious, but now the feeling seems... foreign, somehow. As if he was watching somebody else's memory, seeing the events but not experiencing the emotions they cause. Huh. Is indifference a good replacement of anger? He'll have to ask Healer Averill about this next time. He's quite certain she's going to reply with something wise and vague, like 'it is a step in a certain direction, Mr. Potter'. 

Harry pulls himself out of his reverie. 

'For saving you from Azkaban?' he says lightly. 'Yeah, why not, would be a good start.'

'Oh, excuse me,' Malfoy sneers, this time successfully, 'am I supposed to _thank you_ for telling the truth about how I did _not_ sell your disfigured arse to your most devoted fanboy?' 

And then Harry is laughing, remembering Malfoy's Voldemort impersonation from before. 

'Hilarious,' he says, mostly to himself. 

Malfoy huffs. Harry looks around the room, wondering what time it is and where everyone has gone. The house is silent. The party must have ended, moved or dissipated. Perhaps Luna has gone to sleep upstairs. He wonders whether Ron and Hermione are still on the roof and whether Ginny is sleeping on the stairs. 

'Thank you,' suddenly comes from the floor. 

Harry gapes at Malfoy, who is looking determinedly straight ahead and not at Harry, his entire face twitching. 

Harry searches his mind for a reply. He's got what he wanted, but... what now? What is he supposed to say? _You're welcome?_ To be honest, it isn't like he would have been there to testify at all if Malfoy hadn't decided to suddenly grow some balls that time at the Manor. Hell, there might not have been any trials at all, there might not have been an end to the war at all, or there might have been a different end to it altogether. 

Harry suddenly remembers one of his therapy sessions when they talked about the butterfly effect. The point of the session, Harry recalls painfully vividly, was to mitigate his sense of guilt, which, as he then discovered, rests heavily on his self-centredness. 

Harry sighs. 

'The fact that we can sit here today and get sloshed to celebrate the first anniversary of the final battle is as much the outcome of my actions as it is of yours and everybody else's.'

Malfoy looks back at him, startled. 

'So, you may skip the hug,' Harry adds. 

It apparently takes Malfoy a moment to collect himself. 

'Whoever this Mind Healer you're seeing is, tell them they're doing a good job,' he finally says. 

Harry chuckles and lies back, staring at the ceiling. 

'She might be. Not so sure about myself, though,' he says quietly. 

'Well, at least you're not doing evil lord impersonations in a drunken daze,' Malfoy mutters. 'That's always something.' 

Harry laughs again. 

'That was actually quite funny. Much more amusing than the Dementor one, that's for sure. What else d'you have in your repertoire?'

Malfoy flashes him a sly smile. 'I don't think you want to go there, Potter,' he drawls. 

Harry grins and recognizes the emotion that stirs inside him as oddly familiar. 'Try me.'

Malfoy holds his gaze for a moment, then gets up, much less shakily now. He stands in the middle of the floor, looks around and kicks the blanket under the coffee table. He stretches his neck and shoulders, squinting, then lets out a quick breath. He stands still for a moment. Then his hands move quickly, gripping his shirt and sloppily untucking it from his trousers on one side. Next they rise to his head, sinking in the somewhat dishevelled hair and ruffle it even more with a few violent jerks. 

Harry's eyebrows rise. The list of 'things he didn't think he would see Malfoy do' now consists of at least five elements. 

Malfoy stuffs his hands in his trouser pockets and slumps his back. He shuffles his feet, bites his lip and gives the floor a confused look. 

'I dunno...' he says in a weak voice. 'It's just that... all this popularity is giving me a headache...'

Harry frowns. 

'I mean, really... How many lightning-bolt-shaped autographs can you sign before you puke?'

Harry's eyes widen and his mouth falls open. 

Malfoy shuffles his feet some more. 

'And... nothing makes sense. I'm not particularly smart, I can't really do magic for shit, so I just go for Expelliarmus most of the time...'

Harry gives out an incredulous gasp. 

'I mean, OK, apart from the times when I'm _really_ fucking scared and then I just start swinging about spells I don't even know...'

Harry closes his mouth and winces. 

'... and then, then... the most powerful dark wizards just fall dead at my feet and I win eternal fame and glory,' Malfoy continues in a surprised tone. 'I mean... go figure... And, you know, I really did try taking a bath, but there's really nothing I can do...' Malfoy pauses and whispers ruefully, 'I still stink.'

Harry bursts out laughing. 

'And, the thing is,' Malfoy continues a bit louder over Harry's laughter, 'maybe... maybe it would make me feel better, maybe... maybe I wouldn't feel like sulking or yelling 'Voldemort's back' all the time if... if I could just... I dunno... stalk a schoolmate or save a kitten...'

Harry doubles over in the armchair, laughing hard and raising a finger at Malfoy with effort. 

'I have never,' he gasps, ' _ever_ saved a kitten!'

Malfoy straightens and raises his eyes. 

'Well, that's just animal cruelty, Potter,' he says. 'Also, the fact that you chose to contradict _this_ part of the sentence and not the other one is ever so unsettling,' he adds. 

Harry's still chuckling, staring at Malfoy and feeling genuinely amazed. Here he is, at the party intended to celebrate the most important day of his life, being poked fun at by none other than Draco Malfoy and, apparently, enjoying himself immensely. 

Is this what healing feels like? 

Malfoy runs his hands through his hair, flattening it and tucks his shirt back in properly. 

Harry grins at the devious idea that comes to him. 

'Do you.'

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. 

'What do you mean? I _am_ me.'

Harry shakes his head and smiles. 

'No,' he says simply. 

Malfoy snorts and turns around uneasily. 

'Come on,' Harry urges.

Malfoy turns back to him and his eyes narrow. 

' _You_ do me,' he challenges. 

Harry cracks up all over again. 

Malfoy looks at him with genuine confusion this time. 

'What?'

Harry clutches his stomach. It's beginning to hurt. 

'Wow, Malfoy, you really don't like wasting time, do you?' he chokes out. 

Malfoy's eyes first widen, then narrow. He turns, walks over to his previous spot next to the coffee table and sinks to the ground. 

'Salazar, you Gryffindors and your crass sense of humour,' he mutters. 

Harry's head is swimming again, but for entirely different reasons this time. He pulls himself together. 

'All right,' he smirks, 'all right. _I'll do you._ '

Malfoy rolls his eyes and Harry rises from his seat. 

He stretches and straightens his clothes. He casts some water into the palm of his hand and tries to flatten his hair, but his fringe keeps falling back into his eyes. 

Malfoy scoffs. 

Harry abandons the hair-flattening quest and straightens his back, raising his chin. He puts one hand in his pocket and twirls his wand between the fingers of the other. He narrows his eyes and tries out the aspirated 'p' a few times. 

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. 

Harry scrunches his nose in disgust.

'It's all Potter's fault,' he says nastily, looking around the room as if he was talking to a large audience. 'He dashes around on his illegally procured broom and I haven't even got my bearings yet and he already has the bloody Snitch!'

From the floor, Malfoy gives out a huff of indignation. 

Harry waves his wand in the air angrily. 

'We're winning by _hundreds_ of points and he thinks it's OK to just _stop Voldemort_ one more time only to make Gryffindorks win the House Cup! Stupid Potter,' Harry snarls. 'Everyone thinks he's so great... Saint Potter, with his...'

Harry shoots a quick look down and sees Malfoy tilt his head, frowning. Erm, no direct quotes, perhaps. 

'... with his... fabulous hair, his unbelievable bravery, his astounding wit...'

Malfoy snorts but smiles and Harry's on fire now. 

'And have you sniffed him? Ah, the smell of him! My father will hear about this!' Harry hisses. 

Malfoy's smile disappears and Harry cringes, looking away. Fuck. _Fuck fuck fuck._ Stupid Potter. Stupid, stupid, stupid Potter. 

Harry drops his hands down his sides and chances a look back at Malfoy. He fully expects an angry snarl, an outburst or perhaps a hex. Harry thinks this is the one time he actually deserves any, or rather all of these. But Malfoy is looking away, calm and Harry thinks he can see a tinge of sadness there. 

Is _this_ what healing looks like, too? 

Harry moves towards Malfoy and drops to his knees in front of him, sitting back on his hunches. Malfoy lifts his gaze to him, startled. 

'Stupid Potter,' Harry says quietly and bites his lip. 

Malfoy stares at him for a moment and his eyes are calm and tired. Harry waits and finally one side of Malfoy's mouth twitches in an almost-half smile. 

'Do you really think my whole existence revolved around you, Potter? How predictably self-centred of you,' Malfoy says slowly and there is no trace of real malice in his voice. 

Harry smiles. ' _You_ certainly made me feel it did.'

Malfoy looks away again. 'I did, didn't I,' he mutters. 

Harry's smile stretches. They sit like this in silence for a while and Harry decides his presence on the floor has been wordlessly accepted, so he turns to sit by Malfoy's side, leaning back against the coffee table. 

'You wanna try that Accio one more time?' Harry asks. 

'You think if you get me drunk enough again I'll do another round of the dark lord routine for you?'

Harry snorts. 

'No, I just want to celebrate living through one year of not continuously running for my life by having a drink with an old...' Harry searches for an appropriate word, '... schoolmate.'

Malfoy looks at him askance for a moment, then Accios two bottles of butterbeer, uncorks them and passes one on to Harry. 

'Cheers.'

'So, how's that working out for you?' Malfoy asks casually. 

'How's what working out?'

'Not continuously running for your life,' Malfoy takes a swig from his bottle, then makes a show of pulling back and giving Harry a once-over. 'One would think you'd have more time to look after yourself, but...' he widens his eyes theatrically, turning away. 

Harry snorts. 

'Well, you haven't exactly caught me at my best.'

Malfoy eyes him doubtfully. 

'Yes, there _is_ a best,' Harry nods mock-seriously. 'Or, a _better_ at least. I wore a jacket to the official gala earlier today. You weren't there?'

Malfoy rolls his eyes, shakes his head and sips from the bottle. 

'But you're here,' Harry states, looking at Malfoy curiously. 

'Observant as ever.'

Harry huffs. 

'No, really. Did... Did Luna invite you?'

Malfoy gives him a sharp look, his lips tight. 

'Well, if the Saviour wishes I removed myself from here...' he hisses and makes to stand. 

Harry's hand shoots out instinctively and his fingers close around Malfoy's forearm. 

'No, I didn't mean...'

Malfoy stills and stares at Harry's hand. Harry's eyes fall to it, too and suddenly he becomes aware that not only is he touching Malfoy, he's also gripping him tightly around the Mark. 

'Shit, sorry,' Harry chokes out, pulling his hand back and closing it into a tight fist. 'Sorry,' Harry tries to catch Malfoy's eyes. 'I really didn't mean to... erm... I mean... I only meant to ask if you know Luna... I mean... I _know_ you know Luna, but... I mean... if you're...' Malfoy's eyes finally lift, hard and cold and Harry winces. 'Erm... Stupid Potter?' he offers weakly. 

After a moment Malfoy's face relaxes and he sits back, looking straight ahead. 

'You think I'm going to let you get away with anything if you keep admitting your biggest flaw?'

Harry smiles inwardly. 

'Seems to be working so far...' he says hopefully. 

They drink silently for a while and Harry wonders at the fact that at some point, somehow, it has become important to him to carry on talking to Malfoy. He feels genuinely interested in why Malfoy's here, what he's been doing, how he's getting on. Whether the display of his coping mechanism means he's as messed up as Harry is. Yes, maybe that's just it. Harry's always felt awkward for being the only person who didn't move on with their life after the war. Everybody else moved on. Cried, raged, mourned, but then finally moved on. Not slept for weeks, got fast-tracked into the Auror Department, quit two weeks later, fled to Spain, came back, wrecked his relationship, went on a bender, slept for weeks again, fucked everything that moved, broke both legs in a drunk-flying accident, started a charity, signed it over to Hermione a month later... 

'Luna helped me find a job a while back,' Malfoy's voice suddenly cuts into Harry's thought stream. 

'Oh, I didn't know...' Harry looks at Malfoy curiously. 'What do you do?'

'Most of the time? Die of boredom brewing Pepperup.'

'So you make potions?'

'Yes, Potter,' Malfoy sighs. 'Very well deduced. I make potions.'

Harry smiles. 

'Well, that's great. You've always been good at that.'

Malfoy looks at him askance, frowning. 

'Cease the flattery. The self-deprecating strategy was much more believable.'

'Oh?' Harry quirks an eyebrow jokingly. 'What if I want to combine both the strategies?'

'Don't scare me, Potter,' Malfoy mutters, squirming uncomfortably. 'It might mean you've actually developed some skills.'

'Was that a compliment?'

'Hardly.'

Harry snorts and takes a swig of his beer. He looks at Malfoy some more. The git's staring straight ahead, but he's smirking. Is he enjoying himself, too? 

'I'm having trouble telling if you're teasing me or joking around.'

'Oh, I'm sorry,' Malfoy looks back at him, pressing his palm to his chest. 'I thought confusion was such a permanent state of mind for you that it didn't bother you anymore.'

Harry chuckles, shaking his head. 

'What about you?'

Harry looks up, startled at the suddenly serious tone in Malfoy's voice. He doesn't want to believe that Malfoy's interested in what Harry does. One, because it's Malfoy. Two, because thanks to the Prophet the whole country knows that Harry doesn't do anything but be an utter failure. Three, because the only honest answer to the question is 'still trying to pick up the pieces and pull myself back together.'

Harry bites his lip and tries to feign confusion. 

'What do you mean?'

He fully expects Malfoy to roll his eyes and make a snarky comment, but Malfoy doesn't. He just squirms around, turning towards Harry, folding his arm on the tabletop and propping his head on his hand as if he's preparing to listen attentively. As if he's planning to be looking straight at Harry. 

Harry feels very, very strange. 

'I mean,' Malfoy says as he settles and looks Harry straight in the eye - oh, there it is, weird, 'how are you?'

Harry gapes. 

Harry frowns. 

Has Draco Malfoy just asked him how he is? 

Malfoy seems honestly concerned and Harry briefly wonders if his own instincts are really that off. But the more he stares, the more it seems it really is a sincere question. 

And the more Harry stares, the more Malfoy does not mock and does not crack up and does not tease. He just stares back. He just waits. 

Harry takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. 

'Wow, we've really changed,' he says, feeling truly surprised yet again. Who would have thought bumping into Malfoy would result in a series of startling realisations? 

Malfoy only nods slightly and stays quiet, his eyes never leaving Harry's. 

'OK,' Harry says, mostly to himself, looking around the room. 'OK. Erm... How am I... erm... I am... not very well... but I'm... working on getting better.'

Harry looks back at Malfoy and sees the grey eyes still boring into him, focused and serious. Then Malfoy's eyebrows raise slightly. 

Harry understands he's not being let off the hook that easily and has a fleeting thought about how similar this situation is to what happens in his sessions with Healer Averill. He closes his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts. 

'Erm... I don't really know what I'm supposed to be doing,' he starts, opening his eyes, 'and... what I should do with my life. I... tried to cope... in some healthy and unhealthy ways... and it's got me nowhere... erm...' Harry looks at Malfoy and it's really, really strange how quiet he is. 'Are you...erm... going to say something?' Harry asks feebly. 

'Oh,' Malfoy cooes, 'you miss my snarky comments, Potter?'

Harry grins and nods. That's more like it. 

'They do take the edge off.'

Malfoy nods and waves his hand for Harry to continue. 

Harry sighs. 

'Well... You weren't very far off in your evaluation of me earlier, these days I really don't know what's happening around me most of the time...'

'What's new,' Malfoy comments dismissively. 

Harry smiles. 

'People have these... these dreams and ambitions and plans... And for me, it's like... The very same moment it became possible for everyone to once again plan their lives and do their... things... At the very same moment, the one thing I had to do was done and... since then, I haven't really wanted to do anything...'

'But drink and fuck pretty Spanish birds and lads?' Malfoy finishes innocently. 

Harry winces, looking away. 

'Seems like a decent plan if you ask me,' Malfoy adds after a moment. 

Harry frowns. Has Malfoy just... come out to him? At least with being... well, accepting of that. Which, considering the amount of prejudice he holds - used to hold? - is really... quite surprising. Startling realisations, indeed. 

Malfoy looks completely unconcerned about the direction their conversation has taken and is apparently waiting for Harry to go on. 

'Well... It's not if you're doing it to get away from stuff... but I've since figured out that it was a way to compensate... for the lost time... I suppose up until then I didn't really... live?'

Malfoy nods seriously. 

'That tends to happen when you insist on spending most of your time dying repeatedly.'

Harry laughs and raises his bottle to clink it against Malfoy's before drinking. 

They're silent for a while and Harry thinks about the healthier ways he tried to put himself back on track, which didn't turn out to move his life further either. 

'I thought I'd give this Auror thing a try... I used to want to do that when I was younger but then... after the end of the war I was just... so over running around, fighting... but then they just offered me a job... I really don't know how anyone could think that it was a good idea... with what state I was in back then... But, anyhow, I accepted it because it just seemed like something that I was supposed to do... but... it was a disaster,' Harry shrugs. 'See? I'm not even good at fighting anymore.'

Malfoy's eyes narrow and he pins Harry with a sharp look. 

'Oh, no,' Harry mutters. 'What...?' 

Malfoy must be less drunk and tired than Harry is because in one swift movement he puts away his bottle, draws his wand, stands up and disarms Harry. 

'Oi!' 

Harry looks up at his wand, now in Malfoy's tight grip. He feels a twinge of anger before he sees that Malfoy's face in lit up in a gleeful smile. 

Harry groans. 

'I'm not fighting you.'

'Oh, come on...'

'There are people trying to sleep probably...'

Malfoy casts a Muffliato with a scoff. 

'There's this thing called magic, Potter...?'

'No, Malfoy, I'm drunk and tired and...'

'Ugh! Stop whinging! Get up!' Malfoy nudges Harry's thigh with his foot. 'Indulge me! _My_ Potter would.'

Harry shoots Malfoy an amused smile. 

'Oh, _your_ Potter would, would he? Well, _I_ don't want to...'

'Where, oh where is the Potter I know and hate?' Malfoy starts walking around Harry, raising his arms in the air in mock despair. 

'Wandering naked around King's Cross,' Harry mutters to himself. 

'What?' Malfoy stops and looks down at Harry, scrunching up his nose. 

'Nothing,' Harry waves his hand and sighs. 'Can we please go back to me being pathetic and opening my heart to my former school nemesis? It would _really_ be preferable...'

'No,' Malfoy hisses, bending down and Harry can suddenly feel the huff of Malfoy's warm breath on his ear. 'No, Potter. Your school nemesis is bored of your sob story. Now, the hero is going to stop whining, stand up and get some nice substances rushing through his veins by running around swinging silly hexes. Unless,' Malfoy draws back a little and with the corner of his eye Harry can see a smirk and an arched eyebrow. 

Harry can't fight back a grin. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

'Please don't say what I think you're about to say,' he pleads. 

'Unless you're,' Malfoy pauses and he's very close again, 'scared, Potter?'

Malfoy straightens up and Harry glances up at him. He's looking exceptionally smug, casually twirling Harry's wand between his fingers. Harry points to it. 

'You think that's going to stop me?' he asks cockily. 

He sets his bottle on the coffee table and stands up. He feels slightly dizzy for a moment and closes his eyes, but a second later the haze lifts as a chill reaches and penetrates his insides. A sobering charm. 

Harry opens his eyes and smiles at Malfoy. Malfoy smiles back, taking a few steps away from him. 

'I suppose you'll just have to take it back,' he says lightly. 

'Or not,' Harry says and raises his hand, sending a wandless Stinging Hex. 

Malfoy hisses and jumps back, his eyes widening. 

'Well, well, well,' he pockets Harry's wand and tightens the grip on his own, circling towards the sofa. 'So the rumours are true.'

Harry grins and casts a wordless Impedimenta, but Malfoy counters it and ducks behind the sofa. Harry starts retreating towards the armchair to take partial cover himself, keeping his eyes on the top of the couch. He notices the tip of the wand peeking out low from behind the side when it's already too late and a Trip Jinx hits him, making him fall over the armrest and into the seat. 

'Oh, you think I can win this wandless _and_ sitting down?' Harry laughs. 'You believe in me! I'm touched.' 

Harry decides to stay in the armchair and casts a Shielding Charm around himself. Just in time, as Malfoy's wand suddenly appears, pointing downwards and flicking up. 

'Oppugno!' 

The sofa cushions fly at Harry and fall down around him, bouncing off his shield. 

'A pillow fight, Malfoy?' Harry jeers. 'How intimate.'

He picks up one of the cushions and throws it behind the sofa. 

'What a pathetic miss,' Malfoy scoffs. 'And here I was thinking all the practice you've had would make your aim perfect when it comes to intimate endeavours.'

Harry's mouth falls open and his concentration apparently goes to shit as a Tickling Hex gets through his shield and seizes him. The purple light strings swirl around his stomach and he squirms, gasping and giggling. 

'Ha!' comes from behind the sofa. 'Despite everything, still a blushing bride, then!'

Harry wills the hex away and pulls himself together, springing out of the seat to squat behind the armchair. He casts a shield around himself again and sees Malfoy's head peeking out from behind the sofa for a fraction of a second. He immediately casts a Steleus and as Malfoy retreats, he starts sneezing uncontrollably and cursing between 'achoos'. Harry chuckles and waits for the fit to die down. 

'That was exceptionally nasty, Potter!' Malfoy says when he's pulled himself together. 'Now you got me properly angry!'

Harry can hear shuffling and then his shield is hit and falls down around him. There's something distinctly familiar about the magic that surrounds him for just a split second. 

'Are you using my wand, you twit?' Harry calls. 

'Figured it's only fair, considering.'

Harry scoffs and misses the moment when Malfoy surges from behind the sofa, ducking as he circles the coffee table and comes at Harry from the side, casting a Tingling Hex again. It makes Harry jump up and giggle as he rushes towards the sofa to take cover. 

The next thing he knows, they're both running around the room, laughing and swinging spells and Harry doesn't remember the last time he felt so good. So mindlessly cheerful. So... alive. 

After another round he ducks behind the sofa, panting and suddenly he feels something soft fall on the back of his head and his shoulders and it's very non magical. He turns his head and looks up only to see a cushion descend on him yet again. Malfoy's standing over him, grinning like an idiot and hitting him with a cushion. Huh. And the list of 'never thought I'd see Malfoy do that' things grows. 

Harry grabs the cushion that has been lying on the floor since his 'intimate endeavour' miss, stands up, swirling around and starts swinging back at Malfoy. The high sounds Malfoy is making as he tries to turn his head away from the blows are near adorable and Harry decides perhaps it's better to give up on the list thing altogether and just accept the new reality. 

After a few minutes, Harry feels his arms are starting to go numb from being kept up and his face is hurting from all the laughing. He takes a step back and raises his hand in a gesture of surrender. 

'All right, all right,' he pants, still grinning. 'You win!'

Malfoy smiles broadly, breathing heavily and throwing the cushion on the sofa. 

'And now I can finally die happy!'

He climbs over the armrest and flops down on the sofa seat. Harry walks around and sits next to him, leaning back and trying to even out his breathing. He turns his head towards Malfoy, smiling and sees Malfoy grin at him in return. 

'Better?' Malfoy asks. 

'Better,' Harry replies without hesitation. 

Malfoy nods once and lifts Harry's wand, passing it to him. 

'Shouldn't I win it back?' Harry asks. 

'Not if I give it back to you willingly,' Malfoy answers. 'How else do you think I'd be able to use mine all this time since last year?'

Harry takes his wand and it feels perfect in his hand. Content. Happy. 

Harry stretches his legs in front of him, his feet under the coffee table, and pockets the wand. He tips his head back and sighs. 

' _Now_ I feel really tired,' he breathes out. 'But in a good way.'

'Yeah, me too. Never underestimate the power of a good pillow fight.'

Harry shakes his head and glances at Malfoy, amused. 

'Where did _my_ Malfoy go?'

Malfoy seems to give it some thought, then he tilts his head, looking back at Harry. 

'To a place you don't come back from unchanged,' he says simply. 

They look at each other for a moment in silence. Malfoy's eyes roam steadily around Harry's face and Harry lets himself focus on the faint wrinkles on Malfoy's forehead, the slight upward curve of his pale lips, the blue flickers in his grey irises and the dark circles around his eyes. He wonders which of these are always there and which are just the result of the events of tonight. He'd like to find out some day. 

'Sleep?' Malfoy finally asks. 

'Yup,' Harry answers, averting his gaze with effort. 

'Blow out the candles?'

Harry frowns, glancing back at Malfoy. He's resting his head back, his eyes are closed and he's folded his arms on his chest. 

'Why me?'

'My wand's in my back pocket and I don't want to move,' Malfoy says without opening his eyes. 

Harry grins. 

'Malfoy...?'

'Mmm...?'

'Does wandless magic turn you on?'

Malfoy scoffs. 

'You'd like that, Potter, wouldn't you?'

Malfoy's tone is teasing, but his mouth twitches in a smile in this honest way again, as if he's really enjoying himself. 

Harry doesn't think. He just reaches out and wraps his fingers around Malfoy's forearm and tugs at it - and it's the same one as earlier, but somehow Harry believes it's all right to do that now. Malfoy's head jerks up, his eyes open and he looks from Harry's hand to Harry's eyes quickly. He doesn't look angry. Just... confused. 

'Keep your eyes closed,' Harry says quietly. 'It's easier this way at the start.'

Harry raises Malfoy's forearm in the air, guiding it by the elbow. He uses his other hand to unclench Malfoy's fingers and finds them surprisingly soft. Malfoy's eyes are closed again and his face is perfectly still. He doesn't even seem to be breathing. Harry bites his lip, puts one of his hands on Malfoy's shoulder and starts moving it down his arm. 

'Imagine your magic moving from inside your chest, from your core outwards,' Harry says quietly. 'Imagine your arm is your wand. Feel the spark wrap itself around your bones, twitch your muscles, travelling out,' he reaches Malfoy's elbow and lets go of it to trace his fingers up Malfoy's forearm on both sides. 'Feel it wanting to escape out of your body, to find release. Imagine it moving to your wrist,' he wraps his fingers around Malfoy's wrist, gripping tightly. 'It concentrates there, waiting for you to command it to run free. Focus on how good it would feel to have it run through your fingers and... release it,' he brushes Malfoy's fingers with his knuckles and moves his hands away. 

Malfoy's eyes are still closed and he is keeping his arm up the way Harry left it. 

'As easy as that, huh?' he mutters. 

Harry smiles. 

'Yeah, basically.'

Malfoy takes a deep breath and remains still. Harry finds himself unable to stop looking at his face. After a moment, Malfoy's brow furrows and he releases a shaky breath. 

'Can you...' he starts faintly. 'Can you do that thing with your hands again...?'

Harry doubts having Malfoy touch _him_ would make it easier to concentrate, but he obliges, starting at Malfoy's shoulder and moving slowly down his arm again. 

When he touches Malfoy's fingers, they jerk and half the candles in the room go out. 

Malfoy gasps, sitting up, opening his eyes and looking at his hand in disbelief. 

Harry grins. 

'See? Piece of cake.'

And then the grey eyes are on him again and he can't read them for the life of him, so he just stares, hoping he doesn't look like a complete idiot. A moment later Malfoy flicks his wrist and the room is swallowed by darkness and the eyes are gone. 

'Sleep?' Malfoy's voice asks again. 

'Yeah,' Harry replies numbly and then he's being pushed back towards the armrest and Malfoy is reaching over him, resting his body weight on Harry's legs, pulling the blanket from under the coffee table and climbing behind Harry and nudging him towards the edge of the sofa and before Harry knows what is really happening, he's lying on his side with an arm flung across his chest and the edge of the blanket under his chin and he realises they're spooning. 

He's stunned by the fact for just a moment, but then it turns out to be extremely easy to just close his eyes and fall into the warmth of the body behind him. 

***

When Harry wakes up, he feels the most well-rested he's been in years, even though he has a slight headache, his left arm is numb and his back is hurting. He stretches his legs and opens his eyes. Bright light coming in from the window makes him squint and he rubs his eyelids. When he opens them again, the first thing he sees are two bottles of Hangover Potion standing on the coffee table right in front of his face. 

Right then and there, Harry is hit with a painful rush of thoughts. It must be past noon already. Luna must have gone to work. Luna is an amazing friend. One of the bottles is for him. The other one is for Malfoy. The Malfoy who's currently huffing warm breaths down the back of Harry's neck. Luna saw them spooning. Some other people probably slept over. Some other people probably saw them spooning. 

Harry finds himself completely indifferent to the idea. He's had a great night, he feels good and he's actually looking forward to the day, or whatever's left of it. A completely foreign feeling, but oh, how spectacular. 

He hears his stomach rumble and he carefully disentangles himself from the blanket and from Malfoy, who just squirms and turns to lie on his stomach. His hair is a complete mess and his face looks funny squashed against a cushion and Harry smiles to himself. 

He stretches, raising his arms and then grabs one of the potions and drinks it in a few big gulps. The headache goes away instantly and he feels a burst of energy run through his veins. He vanishes the empty bottle and walks through the corridor and to the kitchen. Knowing Luna, she won't mind if they stay for a while and help themselves to some breakfast. He rummages through the cupboards and the ice box and finally decides to make some eggs. They're already in the pan, sizzling quietly when he thinks he can hear quick footsteps in the corridor. He walks out of the kitchen and sees Malfoy's retreating back. 

'Hey!' he calls reproachfully. 

Malfoy literally jumps and turns around, clutching his chest. 

'Fucking hell, Potter,' he gasps. 

Harry attempts a small smile. 

'Where are you going?'

Malfoy stares at him for a moment, then huffs. 

'I thought you'd left.'

Harry's smile widens. 

'Well, I'm still here,' he moves down the corridor towards Malfoy. 'And I'm making eggs. Want some?'

Malfoy arches an eyebrow. 

'Am I to trust your Muggle cooking skills?'

Harry smirks and takes another step forward, folding his arms. He hits the tips of Malfoy's posh shoes with his trainers. 

'Scared, Malfoy?'

The next second Harry's being gripped by the shoulders, swirled around and guided towards the kitchen by the strong hands splayed on his back. 

'Make the fucking eggs, Potter.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You asked for it, well, you've got it. Hereby the continuation begins. Please don't hate me. :)
> 
> Tags will be added as we go along and the rating will probably change, too.

_Lend yourself to others, but give yourself to yourself.  
\- Michel de Montaigne _

Harry is being literally pushed into the kitchen and he can’t help the chuckle that escapes him. Honestly, who would have thought? Pushed into Luna Lovegood’s kitchen by Draco Malfoy and chuckling. About to have breakfast with Draco Malfoy. About to _make_ breakfast for Draco Malfoy. 

It sounds way too crazy to be true. 

Where is Healer Averill when he needs her the most? 

His nostrils suddenly fill with the strong smell of the eggs, which are now sizzling a bit too furiously inside the steaming pan. He hops over to the stove and jerks it up, but the now brownish mass stays firmly stuck to the bottom. He scrunches up his nose. 

‘And look, my distrust was completely justified,’ a lazy drawl reaches him from behind. 

Harry whips back his head and he sees Malfoy shrugging off his cloak, folding it with care and laying it across the back of a kitchen table chair. There seems to be a barely-there smirk on Malfoy’s lips. 

Harry grins and vanishes the eggs with a flick of his fingers. He moves to the sink to scrub the pan and restart. 

‘I got distracted by a silly prat who decided it was a good idea to bail on me,’ he throws over his shoulder. 

He can hear a chair being pulled out behind him and then a squeak as Malfoy sits down. Harry finds himself oddly calmed by the sound. 

‘As I said, Potter,’ Malfoy says with strained patience, ‘I thought...’ 

‘... thought you’d left,’ Harry chimes in mockingly over the sound of the running water. 

He looks back, smiling and sees Malfoy staring at him, motionless, his hands clasped together on the table top, eyes narrowed and lip curled. No smirk. 

Damn it. 

Harry pulls the pan from under the stream and turns towards Malfoy. He drops his head and his fringe falls into his eyes. He bites his lip and glances up. 

‘Not a successful impersonation...?’ 

Malfoy shakes his head slowly. His expression doesn’t change. 

‘Too early for that stuff...?’ 

Malfoy nods once, raising his eyebrows pointedly. 

‘Not drunk enough to be mocked...?’ 

Malfoy shakes his head again, all serious. 

Harry pouts and concentrates on making the biggest puppy eyes he can manage. 

‘Stupid Potter...?’ 

Malfoy nods and the faint smirk is back and Harry can’t remember the last time he felt so accomplished. He grins and turns back to the sink to resume scrubbing. 

He hears an exaggerated scoff. 

‘Honestly, Potter? You can do wandless magic but you can’t manage a simple Cleaning Spell?’ 

‘Force of Muggle habit,’ Harry replies with a shrug. 

Silence falls as he turns the tap off and dries the pan thoroughly with a cloth. He wanders if it’s because of his mention of Muggles. That’s a minefield of a subject he supposes they should steer clear of. He restarts the pan and reaches for more eggs, determinedly not glancing at Malfoy. Does he still use the ‘M’ word? Does he still believe all this pureblood supremacy crap? Harry cracks the eggs, drops them in, adds a pinch of salt and watches the whites become more and more opaque. Malfoy has clearly changed. Hell, he’s having breakfast with Harry, how is that for evidence? 

He’s having breakfast with Harry. 

Harry’s making him breakfast. 

They’re having breakfast together. 

They had a pillow fight. 

They laughed. 

They... touched. 

They slept... well, next to each other. 

‘Potter,’ Malfoy says and Harry’s jerked out of his thoughts. He looks at Malfoy, startled. 

‘What?’ 

Malfoy raises his eyebrows. 

‘You really _are_ intending on serving me charcoal today, aren’t you?’ 

Harry jumps on the spot and picks up the pan, swirling the eggs inside. 

‘All these promises of eggs were just sweet talk?’ 

Harry smiles at the pan. 

‘No, they’re good. Almost ready.’ 

With the corner of his eye, he sees Malfoy lift an eyebrow and lean back in the chair leisurely. 

He puts the pan back on the stove for a moment longer and moves to grab some bread. It’s stale, so he casts a quick Refreshing Charm on it and starts slicing. Not just two slices - four. Slicing for two people. How odd. He can’t remember the last time he made breakfast for someone. None of his night time companions ever stayed until breakfast. He never _wanted_ them to. Did he ever make breakfast for Ginny? Not that he can recall. Damn it. Did he for Hermione, back then in the Forest of Dean, maybe? Oh, God, was the last time for the Dursleys...? 

_No use going on bad thought rides, Mister Potter, they don’t offer destinations,_ Healer Averill’s calm voice echoes in his head. 

There’s a loud purposeful throat-clearing sound from behind and Harry grabs the pan off the stove, relieved to see the eggs are not burnt, though far from perfect no doubt. His stomach growls nonetheless. 

He divides and plates them and adds two slices of bread to each plate. The crust crunches pleasantly under his fingers and he feels his mouth water. He moves to the table and pushes one of the plates in front of Malfoy, sitting down opposite him. He smiles tentatively. 

‘Enjoy.’ 

He grabs one of the bread slices, breaks it and swipes it across the plate, picking up some of the egg onto it and then quickly stuffing it into his mouth. It melts on his tongue and he closes his eyes for a moment, savouring the taste. He can feel something dribbling down his chin and he rubs his hand against it and licks his fingers, raising his eyes.

He freezes. 

Malfoy is still sitting back in exactly the same position, staring at Harry with an incredulous look on his face. His eyes are wide and for a second Harry thinks he can see the specs of blue in them again. The dark circles under his eyes have somewhat subsided, but the wrinkles are even more visible now in the daylight. His forehead looks so much older than all the other parts of his face. Horizontal lines cut it into pieces, interconnected with faint diagonal creases here and there. 

Harry is suddenly hit with the terrifying thought that it may not be the only area of Malfoy’s body marred with lines. 

Malfoy’s mouth opens and his lips start moving. 

‘You are a savage, Potter.’ 

Harry blinks. 

It’s his fault. He’s never thought of this until this moment, but it seems so very clear right now. Malfoy is yet another person he’s hurt. Yet another person who’s suffered pain because of him. Someone he almost killed. 

‘You _have_ heard of cutlery, Potter? I’ve seen you use it before, with varied success, admittedly, but still...’ 

Oh, God. He can’t make three fucking steps and not bump into someone who isn’t a victim of his choices and actions. So many people dead, hurt, scarred for life. Good people, bad people. It shouldn’t matter, should it? A good person doesn’t run around hurting others, whoever they are, right? Because that makes this person one of them. One of the bad people. Who hurt others. 

Harry feels short of breath. His vision blurs and he can feel his fingers curling. 

_Deep breaths, Mister Potter. Identify the signs and focus on controlling your breathing._

Harry inhales sharply. 

He should say he’s sorry. Why hasn’t he yet said he’s sorry? He’s useless. He is. He really is. So very, very sorry. 

‘Potter!’ 

The word cuts through the air with familiar harshness and fingers snap in front of his face. He jerks his head up. 

Malfoy is staring at him. There is something in his eyes which for a split second makes Harry think Malfoy can see right through him. And then... He seems wary and... frightened? Hell, of course he’s frightened. He has every reason to be. He’s nearly fucking bled to death because of Harry. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry whispers and the sound seems foreign somehow and he wishes he could say it louder and make it matter but he doesn’t think it’s possible. 

Malfoy leans back again and breathes in and out slowly. 

‘Merlin, Potter, it’s only cutlery, for fuck’s sake,’ he says without feeling. 

Harry stares at his plate and the sight of the eggs is suddenly making him sick to his stomach. He can feel tension overtaking his shoulders and he feels like he couldn’t move if he wanted to. What was he thinking? That one evening of drunken mock-fighting would erase it all? That a breakfast of eggs would make up for all the shit he’s done? But what else can he do? There’s nothing he can do. No way to make up for it. For the deaths, for the suffering, for not helping enough, for not being enough. What can he do? He can’t do anything. 

_I can’t do anything._

For a moment, silence rings in his ears and then he can feel fingers closing around his wrist and his hand is being pulled away from him gently but determinedly. He looks up and he sees Malfoy set the elbow of his other arm on the table, his hand raised. He gives Harry an expectant look. 

‘Yes, you can. You can start by helping me _Accio_ a fucking fork.’ 

Harry frowns. Malfoy’s fingers are warm around his wrist, trapping it in a tight, restraining, yet oddly comforting grip. The heat spreads down his forearm and makes something clench in his chest. 

Help. All right. Yes. Good. That’s good. That’s something he can do. He can help. 

He takes a deep breath and flexes his back, trying to remove the tension from his shoulders. He clears his throat, raises his free hand to run it through his hair, pushes his plate away and reaches for Malfoy’s wand hand with both of his. He lays his forearms on the table, his fingers brushing Malfoy’s shirt around his elbow. 

‘So, how did that go?’ Malfoy asks casually. 

Harry glances at him and can’t find the fear from before in his expression. Malfoy’s eyebrows are raised and there’s a small expectant smile on his lips. 

‘Imagine it,’ Harry’s voice comes out raspy and he clears his throat, ‘travelling down your arm, wanting out, concentrate it in your wrist, release.’ 

Malfoy nods and tilts his head towards his wand arm, still holding Harry’s gaze. Harry keeps looking at him as he presses his fingers more firmly, feeling the fabric of Malfoy’s shirt under his fingertips. For a moment, the eye contact is unbearable and Harry thinks he wouldn’t mind a drink right now, but then Malfoy’s eyes fall closed and Harry can almost feel the magic flowing through Malfoy’s body, a wave of warmth and purposefulness that seems to envelop Harry, too. 

As Harry travels up, he doesn’t lighten his grasp as he closes Malfoy’s hand between his palms and he can feel the fingers twitch against his skin. Malfoy’s eyes open as a drawer shoots out with a clattering sound and the next thing Harry knows, Malfoy is holding two forks in his other hand. 

‘Quite grateful right now for all the Seeker training,’ Malfoy says faintly. 

Harry can’t help smiling a little. He lets go and retracts his arms, folding his hands in his lap under the table. He takes a deep breath. 

He helped. That’s good, right? 

Harry’s plate is shoved back in front of him. He glances up. 

Malfoy smirks. 

‘Your cooking skills and table manners are a travesty, but you’re not entirely useless, Potter.’ 

Suddenly Harry remembers last night, how Malfoy’s snark seemed to ease his mind and help him navigate through his emotions without fixating on them. 

He realises his muscles have relaxed and his breathing has come back to normal. 

Malfoy offers him one of the forks. 

‘Now, how about eating like an actual human being?’ 

Harry feels himself smiling involuntarily and as he accepts the fork, a retort spills out of his mouth all on its own. 

‘Oh, so it’s too early to mock Malfoy, but it’s not too early to throw jabs at Potter?’ 

Malfoy’s smile widens. 

‘It’s never too early to throw jabs at Potter.’ 

Harry shakes his head and looks down at his plate. He’s not really hungry anymore, there is a strange knot in his stomach and he doesn’t know what to attribute it to anymore, but he starts moving his food around the plate and picks up the bread. 

_Looking after yourself is a skill like any other, Mister Potter. You learn to read, you learn to fly a broom and you learn to look after yourself. Mastery in any of those is all about getting enough practice._

Harry slumps over his plate, sighing and forces himself to eat. He can’t really feel the taste of the food in his mouth, though he vaguely remembers it being quite good just a little while ago. 

How exactly did he go from being ecstatic about the day ahead of him to... this? 

‘I have to say, Potter, they’re actually not half bad.’ 

Harry looks up and sees Malfoy lower his fork and chew with a half-smile. His back is straight and his elbows are off the table, arms neatly pressed against his sides. Harry thinks he prefers a blanket-wrapped Malfoy, swaying and shouting about tiaras and missing appendages. Or mock-enraged, running around, throwing pillows. Or slightly dazed, sitting on the floor, leaning against a coffee table and looking straight into Harry’s eyes. 

Malfoy huffs. 

‘Oh, dear Salazar. I recall you fishing for compliments yesterday evening. Now I present you with two nearly consecutive ones and all I get in return is a blank stare?’ 

Harry bristles. 

‘Fishing for compliments? When was I finishing for compliments? That’s not something I do.’ 

Malfoy pulls back a little. 

‘Developed some skills? Was that a compliment?’ Malfoy says in his best imitation of Harry’s voice and Harry snorts. Malfoy runs the palm of his hand down his chest. ‘I wore a jacket to the official gala earlier today...’ 

Harry rolls his eyes. 

‘You wouldn’t be saying that it was fishing for compliments if you had seen the jacket.’ 

Malfoy smirks. 

‘Mm, you’re probably right.’ 

‘Oh, can I treat _that_ as a compliment, too? Third nearly consecutive one?’ 

Malfoy narrows his eyes. 

‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, Potter,’ he mutters. 

Harry grins. He resumes eating and is surprised to find the eggs actually do taste quite good. 

He wonders if Malfoy is finding this whole breakfast situation as odd as Harry is. He seems to be in a good mood. Maybe he woke up feeling excited about the prospect of living through another day, too? He did seem to enjoy himself last night. And now he’s smirking and... actually smiling from time to time. 

Or maybe Malfoy just isn’t really as fucked up as Harry is. Maybe the drunken Voldemort ride wasn’t a display of unresolved war trauma at all, but just alcoholic fun. Maybe Malfoy’s mind doesn’t go on crazy fucking spins every now and again, locking itself in a vicious circle of thoughts nothing short of an emergency therapy session can pull it out of. 

Only... Malfoy did, didn’t he? Pull Harry out. Just now. 

Harry chances a glance at Malfoy, who is now finishing his eggs and laying his fork gently across the plate. In Harry’s estimation, it still features far too much yolk goodness, which is apparently about to go to waste in the name of good table manners. 

Harry somewhat uneasily remembers spilling his deepest anxieties at Malfoy last night and realises he still doesn’t know as much as he would like about Malfoy himself. He works brewing potions, but where? Luna had something to do with him getting the job, but when did they become close like that? He didn’t go to the anniversary gala - was he made to feel he’d be unwelcome? He can pillow-fight like a maniac and he... doesn’t seem to be against the idea of variety in sexual interests...? 

‘Don’t strain yourself, Potter,’ Malfoy drawls. 

Harry’s hand jerks and his fork clings against his plate with a shrill sound. Harry focuses his gaze on Malfoy and sees the thin pale lips stretch in a lazy smile. 

‘It’s just that...’ Harry trails off. 

Is it all right to ask Malfoy personal questions? Well, why wouldn’t it be, considering the things Harry confided in him a less than 12 hours ago? 

Malfoy has raised an eyebrow and is gazing at Harry, half-expectant, half-mocking. 

‘Where do you work?’ Harry blurts out. 

Malfoy stiffens and his smile disappears. 

‘Anyone ever told you you’re shit at small talk, Potter?’ he snaps. 

Harry puts down his fork and takes a deep breath. He has to pull himself together. He folds his arms on the tabletop. 

_Simple, straightforward utterances, Mister Potter. Remember about the I-message technique._

‘Yes,’ he nods, ‘but it’s not small talk. I really want to know. _I_ told you,’ he waves his hand vaguely, ‘quite a bit about myself yesterday...’ 

Malfoy’s forehead creases and his lips tighten. 

‘Well, maybe I’m just not as effusive as you are,’ he hisses. 

He stands up abruptly and his chair is shoved back with a screeching sound that makes Harry squint. Malfoy picks up his plate, spells it shining clean with a flick of his wand and moves towards the cupboards, disappearing behind Harry’s back. 

Well, that didn’t go all too well. 

Harry will have to give Healer Averill some negative feedback on this I-message... thing. 

He struggles to keep his disappointment, confusion and frustration in check and think analytically. He closes his eyes. What does Healer Averill say? When someone behaves in a way which seems nonconstructive and hurtful, often the reason is not that they actually intend to do harm, but that they can’t find a better way to deal with a problem of their own. OK. So, what is Malfoy’s problem? 

Harry snorts soundlessly. Well, isn’t that the age-old question. 

In his mind’s eye, he sees Healer Averill raise an eyebrow and give him a reproachful look. He tilts his head. No. No old prejudices. A clean slate. 

All right. So. What makes Malfoy not want to talk about himself? Maybe his work has something to do with his father? That was the one topic that made his mood swing yesterday. And does he not want to share with Harry or not want to share at all? It seems he shares something with Luna... So, it’s about Harry, then? Is he scared? Ashamed? Freaked out? Well, no wonder, really. Harry’s almost constantly freaked out and even more so right at this very moment. They’ve just had breakfast together after a night spent spooning. What is there _not_ to be freaked out about? Maybe the nonchalant snark is just a very good act? 

Or maybe it’s all just a very good act? The fun last night, this morning’s friendly teasing, the tentative support? Maybe Malfoy’s hiding something? Maybe he has an agenda? Maybe he’s trying to get close to Harry for some reason...? But then, he’d have a story ready, he wouldn’t freak out like that, he’d have everything planned and under control... 

Damn it! A clean slate! 

Harry snarls. 

‘I _said_ , don’t strain yourself, Potter.’ 

Harry’s eyes shoot open and he sees Malfoy’s hand grab the plate in front of him and disappear again. Harry hears the whisper of another Cleaning Spell and then the creak of a cupboard door and the soft clink of a plate being carefully placed onto a pile. 

Malfoy knows where things are in Luna’s kitchen. 

Huh. 

Malfoy moves across the room and sits back down in front of Harry, his eyes downcast. There’s visible tension in his movements, but he is breathing evenly, as if working on getting himself under control. He folds his forearms on the table top, clears his throat and looks up. 

Harry makes a show of squinting and biting his lip. 

‘Stupid Potter...?’ he offers weakly. 

Malfoy nods. 

‘Yes, I am surprised to find myself agreeing with you yet again.’ 

Harry smiles with the left side of his mouth. 

He searches his mind for a safe conversation topic. No personal stuff, clean slate... 

Teasing seemed to have worked for both of them. 

‘So, the eggs were to his majesty’s satisfaction?’

Malfoy tilts his head. 

‘And you say fishing for compliments is _not something you do_?’ 

Harry scoffs and smiles. 

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ 

Malfoy nods indulgently. 

‘Of course you will.’ 

‘I _can_ make more than eggs, you know.’ 

Malfoy widens his eyes theatrically. 

‘Can you now?’ 

‘Yup. I just haven’t had many tasters.’ 

‘People in Spain don’t eat breakfast?’ 

The question is thrown completely casually but Harry startles. Malfoy is smirking at him, all smug and self-satisfied and Harry wonders how exactly they have managed to develop these dynamics in which Harry is ready to spill secrets about his intimate relationships while Malfoy doesn’t even want to talk about his job. 

_One of the things that we have to accept in life, Mister Potter, is that not everything makes sense and not everything evens out. Sometimes, we just have to let go and allow ourselves to enjoy a reality which is not what we expected it to be._

Harry collects himself. 

‘They do,’ he says in a flippant tone. ‘But while they were privy to an area of my spectacular talents, it wasn't the kitchen one.’ 

Malfoy loses the smirk and his expression goes blank as he stares at Harry. 

Harry is quite sure he has just either earned a good few points in the verbal sparring match or cocked the whole game up for good. 

Finally Malfoy’s cold expression melts away and his eyes roam down Harry’s body slowly. 

‘Oh, I feel so privileged to have been granted the opportunity to learn of your remarkable expertise.’ 

It comes to Harry’s mind that he might have just wandered into the part of the pool that is very much out of his depth, because he has absolutely no idea what to say to that, when suddenly there is a whooshing sound from across the corridor and a moment later quick light footsteps start approaching, the floorboards creaking louder and louder. 

Malfoy whips his head towards the open kitchen door and Harry moves his body weight to the side in order to take a peek when he hears soft yet cheerful humming. 

Luna falters in the entrance to the kitchen when she registers their presence, her eyes darting between them. Her gaze finally stops at Malfoy and her brow furrows slightly for a split second, but then she looks at Harry again, breaks out in a sunny smile and continues across the room. 

‘Hello, boys,’ she sing-songs. ‘I hope you’re having a splendid afternoon?’ 

Harry turns in his chair to look at her, following her with his gaze, wide-eyed. 

‘Erm...’ he starts. 

‘Quite,’ Malfoy cuts in. 

Harry looks back at Malfoy, confused and at a loss for a proper reaction. 

‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ Luna says a little distractedly, looking into the ice box and reaching for something inside. ‘The Tattitungs haven’t given you any trouble?’ 

Harry feels himself smiling involuntarily. As many times before, he is hit with the realization that Luna is probably the most mentally healthy person he knows, despite what one might think at first glance. 

He looks at Malfoy, shrugging helplessly and internally hoping that if he keeps quiet then maybe he will have a chance to gain some insight into the relationship between these two. 

Malfoy ignores Harry’s look and shakes his head seriously. 

‘No trouble at all.’ 

‘Oh, good, I’m so glad to hear that,’ Luna opens a glass bottle of milk and takes a sip. ‘They can be very distracting.’ She sighs, looking up at the ceiling. ‘We have them at the Quibbler headquarters, too, you see,’ she looks at Harry and Malfoy in turn. ‘It is so difficult to concentrate on work when all they want to do is make you play with them.’ 

‘Indeed,’ Malfoy says with a soft smile and Harry’s eyebrows shoot up. 

‘That’s why I decided to drop in here at lunch break, clear my head a little,’ Luna smiles gently, closes the bottle and puts it back in the ice box. ‘But I’ll leave you boys to yourselves now,’ she looks at them, her face warm, hands clasped together in front of her. ‘Work awaits.’ 

Harry freezes. 

Work. Work awaits. 

Obviously. It’s Monday. 

For people who aren’t complete fucking screw-ups like Harry, that means work. 

Why isn’t Malfoy at work? 

It’s the middle of the day. 

Harry turns towards Malfoy abruptly and the hold he’s been able to keep of himself snaps as he feels the dots connect in his head. The words rush out of his mouth before he can stop and think. 

‘Shouldn’t you be at work right now?’ 

Malfoy’s face disappears behind a cold mask again and his back straightens. 

‘This is by no means your concern, Potter,’ he hisses. 

Harry suddenly feels very hot. 

It’s his fault that Malfoy is not at work. He made Malfoy stay for breakfast and now Malfoy probably no longer has the job that Luna helped him find. No wonder he didn’t feel like discussing it earlier. He knew he was already in trouble. 

And it’s all Harry’s fault. He kept Malfoy up, crying on his shoulder like a fucking child, mock-fighting him to lift his own spirits, teaching him wandless magic, for fuck’s sake... And then stopped him while Malfoy was on his way out. To go to work. To fucking face the world and earn a living and make something of himself. None of which came to Harry’s mind, because he’s a dumb selfish bastard who not only lives off an inheritance, but also receives a monthly allowance from the Ministry of Magic for being _a fucking murderer_.

Harry is short of breath and his vision is starting to blur again. 

And here he was thinking that Malfoy had an agenda of some kind. That he’s the bad one. 

He thinks he can feel hands fall on his shoulders, fingers squeezing and pressing down and the touch makes him open his eyes wider. There is a ringing in his ears but he can hear a soft voice saying his name somewhere to the side of his head. 

He has to make up for it. He has to make it right. He’s been an idiot and he can’t let anyone else take the fall for that. Never again. He has to do something. He has to help. 

Yes, he can do that, can’t he? What the fuck is the point of becoming a well-respected, nationally-famous murderer if you can’t name-drop from time to time to get someone something? He’s going to march right into this potions... place and make... whoever’s in charge accept Malfoy back. He just has to get to know where the place is. 

He rubs his eyes and runs his fingers through his hair, tugging in an attempt to fully wake himself up. When he looks up it’s all still a little hazy, but he sees Malfoy leaning back, eyes big and grey and round, staring somewhere above Harry’s head, his mouth covered by his hand. 

Harry breathes in. 

‘I’m gonna get you your job back,’ he announces. 

Malfoy gapes at him and his hand falls down onto the table. 

‘Excuse me...?’ 

Harry nods frantically and bats at the small hands that squeeze him again and try to slither from his shoulders down his chest in a calming gesture. 

‘I’m gonna get you your job back,’ he repeats more forcefully. ‘You should be at work today, you’re at least half a day late already, and it’s my fault, I made you stay, with the stupid breakfast and everything,’ Harry’s words race each other at a speed which makes his tongue twist and tangle. 

‘Harry...’ Luna’s soft voice comes from behind him. 

‘Potter, this is none of your business...’ 

‘But you’d be at work right now if it wasn’t for me.’ 

‘I was already late when I woke up past noon,’ Malfoy grits out. 

‘’Cause I kept you up!’ 

‘I’m not a fucking child, Potter, I can’t be _kept up_ against my will!’ 

‘But you helped me so much yesterday, and look how I repay you. I want to help now. Like before,’ Harry is losing track of what he wants to say, too many thoughts and feelings running through his mind at the same time, overlapping. 

‘I don’t need your help, Potter.’ 

‘But I _want_ to help...’ 

‘Well, I don’t want your help!’ Malfoy bangs his fist on the table. 

Harry is sweating now and the sound only makes his body feel hotter. He rises from his seat and plants his hands on the table, bending towards Malfoy. 

‘Why won’t you let me help?’ 

‘I _told_ you, Potter...’ 

‘You let Luna help!’ Harry shouts accusingly, flinging his arm back in the vague direction of Luna. 

Malfoy turns his head away with an angry scoff. 

‘Harry, breathing...’ Luna tries, but it only makes Harry pant harder. 

‘No! I don’t fucking care about breathing right now! We need to fix it! _I_ can fix it!’ 

‘I - don’t - need - your - scar-flashing!’ Malfoy shouts. 

Harry flings his arms into the air. 

‘But I created the problem! Why won’t you let me fix it?!’ 

‘Fuck’s sake, Potter!’ Malfoy leans on his forearms over the table. ‘Who do you think you are?! The whole bloody world does not revolve around you!’ 

Harry sinks his hands into his hair, gripping hard again. 

‘Draco,’ Luna starts quietly. 

‘No!’ Harry shouts, pushing the chair back and jumping around the table. 

He stands behind Malfoy, who is following his movements with wide eyes, and grabs Malfoy’s cloak with one hand, using the other to fling Malfoy up by the arm. Malfoy rises clumsily, letting out a high surprised sound. Harry pushes the cloak into Malfoy’s hands and closes his wrist in a tight grip, pulling. 

‘Come on, Side-Along me,’ he orders. 

Malfoy just looks at him with utter disgust, his face scrunched up as if he was in pain. 

‘Come on!’ 

‘You must be fucking joking...’ Malfoy says weakly. 

‘Come on!’ Harry shouts, stamping his foot. ‘We’re doing this! Right now!’ 

Malfoy jerks his wrist away and rearranges the cloak that is folded around his other arm. His upper lip curls and he takes a shaky step back, his calves hitting the chair behind him. 

‘Fuck you, Potter,’ he snarls and Disapparates with a pop. 

Harry stares into the spot where Malfoy stood just a second ago and feels all the energy rush out of him painfully, leaving him empty and hollow and failed. 

Luna sighs heavily next to him and his head jerks up. Maybe there’s still hope. He turns. 

‘Luna...’ His voice trembles. 

‘No,’ Luna shakes her head softly. 

‘Luna, I need to...’ 

‘No, Harry,’ she says more firmly, closing her arms around him. 

He feels his chest clench, heat rising inside his body again, a wave of helplessness encompassing him and he bends in half, clutching his stomach and growls long and loud, the sound doing nothing to ease the terrible empty feeling and finally turning into a tearful sob. 

The cupboards shake and rattle and he thinks he can hear the sound of glass breaking. 

His breaths come out in ragged gasps and his head is pounding. His face feels wet and his eyes sting. 

There was... something. And it was good. And now it’s gone. 

And it’s his fault. 

He needs a drink. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I took a shitload of time to update this. I'm sorry. Are you still there...? Comments would ease my anxiety tremendously. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

_The wound is the place where the light enters you.  
\- Rumi_

When Harry comes to, the first thing he registers is the pain in his shoulders and back. He tries to move but his limbs feel heavy and are completely uncooperative. He clenches his hand and his fingernails scrape against wooden boards. He must be lying on the floor. His head hurts like hell, he’s nauseous and he’s feeling short of breath. He can’t have slept long. He’s still a little drunk. He opens his eyes slowly. 

The room swims in front of his eyes for a moment, but he blinks a few times and finally it settles. It’s dark, but there is a strong thin beam of sunshine travelling from behind him, cutting the room in two, floor to ceiling, like a wall of light. Dust is moving through it lazily, the tiny flecks reminding Harry of ash. His eyes hurt and he lowers his gaze and follows the ray of shine as it creeps along his body on the floor to his left. It hits a smoked glass bottle lying next to his left knee and he stretches his arm with a grunt, reaches for it and raises it only to see that it’s empty. He drops it back on the floor and sighs, his body protesting even this small amount of effort. He raises his eyes and they fall on the wall in front of him. 

The images woven into the old, ragged tapestry are almost indiscernible in the dimness of the room, but the long thin stripe where the light from the window hits the wall glitters from the gold threading. Harry’s eyes travel down the visible streak and he notices that the wall of light falls exactly within the space between the two small pieces of parchment saying ‘Narcissa Malfoy’ and ‘Lucius Malfoy’ and the one with Draco Malfoy’s name further to the right, dividing the branch that connects him to his parents in two with a sparkling ribbon of sunshine. For just a split second, Harry thinks he can see the end of the branch move as if it was about to break and fall, taking Malfoy with it to the floor. 

This is when Harry remembers. 

The recent events come back to him in a painful rush and he suddenly understands the origin of the empty bottle on the floor. He closes his eyes, willing himself to go to sleep or pass out again or whatever – just not to be aware of the anger and sorrow that are gnawing at him from the inside. To wake up when it has all gone away, when the pain has been dulled, when he feels excited about the idea of living through another day again. 

Like he did this morning. 

He squirms to lie on his side and lets out something which, to his own ears, sounds like a half-groan, half-moan. His stomach turns and suddenly he knows he’s not going to make it to the bathroom in time. He concentrates and tries to Apparate, but it isn’t working and he thinks that maybe his magic has gone to shit when he remembers the Anti-Apparition and Impenetrable Wards he set up as soon as he got home. He doesn’t feel up to removing them in his current state. He raises his head with effort, looking around dazedly and sees a rusty brass fruit bowl on a low shelf nearby. He pushes his body across the floor, grabs it and pulls it down just in time to start vomiting into it. He keeps retching for what seems like an eternity, his nostrils filling with the nasty sour smell and he makes the mistake of opening his eyes and realizing the bowl is full of alcohol and his breakfast. 

The breakfast he made for Malfoy. 

He pushes the bowl away and turns to lie on his back with effort, panting. 

The fucking breakfast. 

He remembers how good he felt as he was making it and he didn’t think it was possible, but the pain in his heart grows even more unbearable. 

He bangs the back of his head on the floor with an angry growl. 

It hurts. 

He has to forget it. Forget all about it. As if it was never there. As if this whole night and morning never happened. 

He can’t believe he was stupid enough to think that anything good could come out of a meeting with Malfoy. What _was_ he thinking? He can’t believe himself. 

He must be really fucking desperate. 

Fuck Malfoy. Fuck him and his fucking issues, whatever they are. 

Harry takes a few deep breaths and sits up. He rubs his face and turns to kneel, then uses a nearby armchair to pull himself up shakily. He stays like this, supporting his weight on it for a moment, blinking and gasping as his body adjusts to standing upright. He can see the heavy dark curtains drawn, the beam of sunshine getting through the slit between them. He breathes in deep, inhaling the warm dusty air and moves through the room slowly, his arms spread to the sides for balance. The side of his foot hits the empty bottle and he squints as the wall of light encompasses him for a short moment. 

Somehow he manages to get to the bathroom and turns one of the serpent heads to start the water. He splashes it on his face, rinses his mouth, rubs his eyes and runs wet fingers through his hair. 

It doesn’t make the mess on his head behave any better than it did the last time he tried that, while _doing Malfoy_.

He plants his hands on the sides of the black washbasin and closes his eyes, breathing heavily. 

Forget. He was supposed to forget, not remember. 

He tries to vanish all the memories, empty his mind and focus on getting a hold of himself. 

_Looking after yourself is a skill like any other, Mister Potter,_ Healer Averill’s voice echoes in his head. 

That’s right. He’s going to take a shower, put on some fresh clothes and eat something light and nutritious. He should probably also take down the Anti-Apparition Wards and the Silencing Charm, open the Floo and check for angry owls on his window sills. Luna might have tried to contact him after he Disapparated right from between her arms in the kitchen and if she let Hermione and Ron know, there’s a good chance they’ve given up banging on the door and are currently camping out on the doorstep. 

Yes. That’s what he’ll do. He’s going to focus on himself and on his friends. The people who care for him and whom he’s been neglecting for much too long. This is something worth fixing. 

He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, looking up. He frowns when he sees his reflection in the mirror above the basin. His face is a strange tinge of white and green, his hair is a mess, too long again, partly tangled, his eyes are red, his eyelids puffy, dark patches of skin underneath. His chin is stubbly, his lips chapped and pale. 

He looks at himself and sees fear and heartbreak. 

Is this what Malfoy saw when he looked up in the mirror... back then? 

Harry’s heart starts racing and his mouth falls open. 

There’s no way he’s going to forget. He doesn’t _want_ to forget. 

What is he even doing here? 

He steps back from the basin. 

He wants to feel happy again. He wants to feel the joy that comes with a silly pillow fight. He wants to do wandless magic. He wants to serve something better than eggs for breakfast. He wants to sleep next to someone under a blanket. He wants to see Malfoy wrapped in a blanket again. Yelling about tiaras and snakes and fanboying over scrawny arses. 

He foregoes the shower, but stumbles to his bedroom to change into a fresh set of clothes – well, maybe not fresh, but at least not having been worn while puking – and runs down to the kitchen, where he stores his Hangover Potion supply. He downs one quickly, trying to search his memory for the side effects of an overdose. The most important things is, the dull ache in his head seems to ease off and he thinks he can feel the skin around his eyes lose some of its puffiness. He remembers he was planning on opening up the house and he walks to the hall, waving his hand repeatedly to take down the wards and the Silencing Charm one by one. There are no sounds coming from outside and no one Apparates right in, but when he reaches the front door, there is a folded piece of parchment stuck under it as if someone was trying to get it through but did not quite manage. Harry’s Impenetrable Wards are strong. He’s had quite a bit of practice setting them up, after all. 

He picks up the parchment and sees his name written in Hermione’s handwriting at the top. He’s going to let her know he’s fine, but first he needs to check if Luna tried to contact him. She’s his only hope in locating Malfoy, so she’s a priority right now. 

He pockets the unread message and opens the front door. A wave of light and heat hits him and he narrows his eyes. It can’t be terribly late, the sun is still quite high in the sky and the air is stuffy and still. There’s no one outside, so he closes the door, turning around and casting a Tempus. Half past four. Luna is probably still at the Quibbler offices. 

He runs into one of the rooms and opens a window, looking out and around for an owl. He drums his fingers on the window sill and after only a moment, a small brown and white owl circles in from above his head, lands on the sill and extends its leg, letting out a series of low dissatisfied noises. Harry pats its small head gently and accepts the letter. 

‘Sorry,’ he mutters. ‘I’m sorry you had to wait. Thank you.’ 

For a moment, the owl waits, fixing its gaze on him, staring as if in disbelief. When Harry just stares back, it ruffles its feathers, squeaking shrilly and takes off, disappearing quickly into the sky. 

He’ll have to stock up on owl treats if he knows what’s good for him. 

He closes the window and unfolds the letter with trembling fingers. 

_Harry,_  
_Everyone needs to be alone sometimes, that’s perfectly all right._  
_If you’d like to Apparate right back into a hug, give me a heads-up._  
_I may be holding a baby Streeler._  
_Love,_  
_Luna_

Harry smiles and his heart clenches from remembering how awfully he behaved in front of this wonderful person, who has always been nothing but loving and supportive towards him. He folds the letter, puts it into his pocket and Apparates. 

The Quibbler offices take up the basement and the two bottom floors of a large red brick building off Diagon Alley. The large sign over the double wooden door says ‘The Quibbler, The Wizarding World’s Alternative Voice’. Each word is written in a different typographic style and colour, making the sign quirky, interesting and difficult to read. Just like the Quibbler itself. 

Harry pushes the door open and enters the spacious room filled with desks and bookshelves. The floor is littered with pieces of paper and parchment and high stacks of magazines and newspapers are leaning against the walls in physically impossible arches. The room is filled with a colourful glow of sunlight which travels in through big stained glass windows. 

A few heads rise from above the desktops and Harry is immediately welcomed by a collective murmur of ‘Mister Potter.’ A few people stand up. He nods his head. 

‘I’m here for Luna.’ He points to the metal staircase at the back of the room. ‘She upstairs?’ 

The heads nod and Harry waves his thanks and moves forward among the desks. He’s almost across the room when he glances to the side and sees a familiar face. He’s quite certain it belongs to someone whom he did _not_ invite to stay over for breakfast. 

The boy has stood up from his chair, a slightly surprised but delighted look on his face. He’s turning a quill between his fingers as if he didn’t know what to do with his hands. 

‘Harry,’ he says hopefully. 

Harry would respond. He really would. If only he could remember the boy’s name. 

He sends a forced smile and a curt nod in the boy’s general direction, avoiding eye contact and doesn’t stop, hopping onto the stairs, taking them two at a time. 

When he’s at the top, he stops for a moment and breathes in slowly. These kinds of encounters always manage to shake him up a bit. 

The room upstairs is also big and similarly lit, but a section of it is separated with a colourful glass wall which runs along the front of the building, creating Luna’s private office. There seems to be no one else working here right now and Harry moves for the glass door, barely visible among the chaos of the stained glass patterns. 

He knocks on the glass softly and enters. 

Luna is standing in front of a wooden filing cabinet. A few of its small drawers are pulled out and are being used as flowerpots. Long green branches spill from them, travel down and to the sides, entwining with each other. Harry thinks some of them are moving lazily as if they were alive but half asleep. 

Luna looks over her shoulder at him and her face breaks out in a sunny smile. She turns to him, shutting a drawer absent-mindedly and in the process, jamming one of the branches, which – Harry is quite certain he is not imagining it – giggles quietly. 

‘Harry,’ Luna cooes, hopping forwards and hugging him. 

He closes her small body in a tight embrace and squeezes. Over her shoulder, he sees her big wooden desk and on it, a snail the rough size of his own fist. Its swirly shell is covered in dangerous-looking spikes and is gradually changing colour from blue to purple as the snail slowly glides along the wood, leaving a glistening trail of something presumably sticky behind its tail. 

Harry wrinkles his nose. Must be the Streeler. 

Luna pulls back and follows his gaze. She smiles. 

‘Do you want to hold it?’ 

Harry raises his eyebrows. 

‘No, not really, thanks. It, erm... It looks kind of dangerous...?’ 

‘Oh, it is, but only to the Fwoopers that intend to eat it,’ Luna clarifies, glancing at the snail fondly. Then she finds and holds Harry’s eyes. ‘Would you like more hugging?’ 

Harry smiles awkwardly. 

‘No, I’m fine for now, I think.’ He looks around, slightly at a loss for how to go about explaining himself. 

‘That’s a shame.’ Luna swirls once in a circle and it doesn’t seem like she has any actual regrets. ‘Sit down.’ 

She points to a large armchair next to the filing cabinet. The upholstery features a dizzying flowery pattern and there are at least five mismatched cushions on the seat. 

Harry moves the armchair away from the live-plant-ridden drawer-flowerpots and fluffs the cushions, using it as an excuse to check what exactly he’ll be sitting on. The armchair and its contents seem innocent, so he flops down and pulls one of the cushions into his lap. 

Luna hops onto the desk, facing Harry and swings her legs from side to side. She’s smiling. 

‘So, erm...’ Harry starts. ‘Sorry for... earlier.’ 

Luna nods happily but doesn’t comment, so Harry clears his throat and trudges on. 

‘I... I got really wound up...’ He drops his head and picks at the edge of the cushion. ‘But that’s because... I think... I really enjoyed spending time with Malfoy...’ 

‘I know,’ Luna acknowledges merrily. 

Harry’s head snaps up and he frowns. 

‘You don’t think that’s... weird?’ 

Luna shakes her head, beaming, still swinging her legs with abandon. 

‘No,’ she proclaims. 

He looks at her for a moment, confused. She doesn’t offer any further explanation, apparently convinced the matter is completely obvious. 

The thought that he’s more transparent to other people than to himself is quite scary. But now is no time to get into that. 

He resumes picking at the cushion. 

‘Is he all right?’ 

‘He’s OK.’ 

‘What about his job?’ 

With the corner of his eye, Harry sees Luna’s legs still. 

‘Harry...’ 

He raises his eyes at her, pleading. He _needs_ to know. 

‘Luna, please... It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t...’ 

‘Harry,’ she cuts in softly. ‘I’m quite sure he wouldn’t want me to be discussing that.’ 

Harry feels his teeth clench. 

‘But I have to make this right, Luna. I have to fix this. It’s my fault, and I promised myself no one would suffer because of me ever again, and so I _have to_ fix this. You do understand, don’t you?’ 

He looks up at her again and she’s biting her lip, a small sad smile on her lips. 

‘I do, Harry. But that’s no way to go about this...’ 

Harry rubs his face, the feeling of helplessness seizing him again. 

‘But it’s so simple! I just have to go to this place where he works and explain and they’ll have to take him back! What’s the point of all those terrible things I’ve done if I don’t make use of who I am to help someone when I can?’ Luna opens her mouth, but Harry goes on, feeling heat building in his chest and spreading down his arms. ‘And it’s important for me, Luna... It’s important because... last night at your place... it was like... like for a little while, I was... healthy... again. Like I wasn’t... broken. And I know I am, and maybe he is too and maybe that’s why... ’ He drops his head, losing track of the rush of thoughts running through his mind. ‘For a moment, I was happy... And I fucked it up. I fucked it up good and I have to fix it. I have to get it back.’ He raises his eyes. ‘I want to be happy again, Luna. Please help me be happy again. I need to see him and I don’t know where to find him, I don’t know where he lives or where he works or where he goes... But you do. Please help me, Luna. I need this.’ 

They look in each other’s eyes for a while, Luna’s expression soft and resigned. 

‘Harry, you know I love you,’ she says finally and he already knows this is going nowhere. ‘But I can’t. You need to take a step back and let things run their course...’ Harry squeezes the cushion and groans. ‘Remember what Healer Averill says? Focus on yourself, stop saving everyone, give up trying to control everything...’ 

_Try other methods instead of emotional blackmail to get what you want,_ Harry’s mind supplies in Healer Averill’s voice. 

He shuts his eyes and curls in on himself, Luna’s voice fading away as his ears start ringing again. 

What is he supposed to do? Go back home again? And do what? Nothing make sense. Everyone always tells him to pursue what makes him feel good, to try to get better, to find happiness again and when he does, he’s supposed to just drop it? Forget it? He can’t forget it. He doesn’t want to forget it. He wants to fix it, to feel healthy, alive again. It’s his fault, he fucked it up. Why won’t they let him fix it? 

He just wants to feel happy again. 

He remembers the Tingling Hexes and Malfoy sneezing uncontrollably and the eggs that Malfoy paid more attention to than Harry did and the blanket slipping to the floor and Malfoy tripping on it, giggling, and the sound of their bottles clinking against each other and Malfoy’s scoffs and his slumped shoulders and confused looks and shuffling feet and his eyes, patient for Harry to continue, and his _seems like a decent plan if you ask me_ and his fingers twitching against Harry’s palms as the drawer clattered open and the candles blown out and Malfoy’s creased forehead and his smirk at _stupid Potter_ and the three nearly consecutive compliments and the puddle of water around him as he snored and the tassels of the blanket tucked under Harry’s chin and the warmth of the body plastered against Harry’s back. 

He feels his lungs rebel from lack of oxygen and he realizes he’s hunched over, his face buried in the cushion. He raises his head a little and tries to inhale but it’s as if his throat has closed up and he can’t draw in a proper breath. He feels his body shaking, his skin breaking out in a cold sweat and his eyes burning. 

Why won’t this fucking pain go away and finally let him be? 

He feels Luna’s hands wrap around his arms and he sees she’s kneeling on the floor in front of him, her mouth moving and her calm eyes searching his face. He can’t make out what she’s saying and he’s still gasping for breath and then the cushion is removed from his hands and he’s being pulled up to a standing position. 

The next thing he knows, his stomach tightens into a painful knot as he feels the lurch of Apparition. A warm gust of wind ruffles his hair and he smells fresh spring air as he is finally able to inhale properly. He raises his head, feeling a dull pain in his neck from the movement, and sees a familiar back alley. In the dark brown wall in front of them, a green door materializes and swings swiftly open to let them in. 

Luna directs him into the narrow staircase and up the steps, now holding him around the waist and supporting his weight. 

As they reach the third landing, another door appears, as it usually does, recognizing his magic. He stumbles into the familiar small space and drops onto the sofa. He wipes his face with the hem of his t-shirt and tries to get his breathing under control. Inhale through the nose – one, two, three, four, five, six – exhale through the mouth – one, two, three, four, five, six. Inhale through the nose – one, two, three... 

Here he is again, in Healer Averill’s secret waiting room. The one for the real screw-ups who can’t go in through the front door, like the slightly more normal people. For the ones whose visits at a Mind Healer’s practice would give _The Prophet_ a considerable boost in circulation. 

The door they used to get in has melted back into an ordinary-looking wall by now and there’s seemingly no other way out of the room. It always makes Harry a little claustrophobic and as usual, he wonders if none of the Healer’s high-profile patients are here to treat this particular affliction, because if they are, he most definitely does not envy them. But he knows how it goes. In emergency cases like this, too. 

He sees Luna approach the Dilys Derwent portrait and say a few words to the kind-looking woman, who rises from behind her desk, peers over Luna’s shoulder at Harry, nods her head and disappears from the painting in a flutter of old-style robes. 

Luna turns around and is immediately in front of Harry again, kneeling on the floor and closing his face in her hands. She starts breathing in and out in sync with him with exaggerated seriousness and he smiles at her weakly, feeling his heart shatter into a thousand pieces over the absolute fucking miracle she is. 

He just wishes she would also help him find Draco fucking Malfoy. 

There is a single bookcase on the wall opposite the one they used to enter and now as it squeaks and starts sliding to the side, Harry is at a loss for what is supposed to happen next. He needs to get himself under some kind of control if he is to be of any help to Malfoy and for the past few hours that hasn’t been working out very well. Maybe Healer Averill can help. But he certainly does not have time to dive into his numerous _issues_ right now, he just needs someone to give him a set of clear guidelines to getting what he wants at this specific moment. 

Healer Averill steps out of the dark passage hidden behind the bookcase and her eyes take in the situation in one quick swoop. She perches on the sofa next to Harry, turning towards him and looks down at Luna. 

‘Thank you,’ she says. 

Luna nods once, squeezes Harry’s face and smiles at him and stands up to leave the room through the exit door, which once again materializes in the wall separating the room from the staircase. 

Harry raises his eyes at the Healer, squirming around a bit in order to face her and attempts a small smile. 

‘Hi,’ he says. 

Her face is warm and open, her short black hair curling around her head in thick swirls, her black eyes shining, the skin on her face dark, healthy and glowing. 

Harry always marvels at how her sanity radiates out of her skin, just as his insanity mars his own complexion. 

‘Hello, Mister Potter,’ she says, folding her hands in her lap. ‘I hear you’re in need of assistance. I’m with a patient right now, hence the lack of invitation to my office, but I’ll be finished in 15 minutes, so if you’re willing to wait, I can make time for you in a little while. My next appointment isn’t for another hour.’ 

Harry shakes his head. 

‘No, I just need... I just need to calm down a bit and I need to help someone... but it’s not that easy, erm... ‘cause I don’t know where they are exactly and no one will tell me. You see, I’ve had this strange... amazing... experience... last night. I felt... like I was healing... but then I went and bollocksed it up and I want to own that and take responsibility and fix that, but I don’t know how exactly, so if you could just give me some pointers, maybe...?’ 

As soon as he’s finished, he feels his breathing has sped up again and he’s panting, a strange fluttering sensation in his chest. 

Healer Averill’s expression hasn’t changed, it’s still warm and open and patient as she nods her head. 

‘I understand what you are saying, Mister Potter. I do believe, however, that anything I might say right now would be off-target as I am missing too much of the context of the situation to advise anything. The best course of action would be to sit down and discuss the issue at hand and together, come up with a decent action plan, as you suggested. And for this, we need a little bit more time. Will you be so kind as to wait while I finish my current session?’ 

Harry rolls his eyes internally. That is exactly what he does not need right now. He doesn’t need a session, he doesn’t want to wait and talk about his problems, he needs to _do_ something. 

He shakes his head. 

‘That’s fine, I feel better now, I s’ppose I just needed some fresh air...’ 

‘Mister Potter...’ Healer Averill’s fingertips brush against his forearm gently. 

‘No, no, it’s fine, really,’ he says quickly. ‘I don’t want to keep you.’ 

‘Mister Potter, you really should take a moment...’ 

‘Yeah,’ he interrupts her, standing up. He’s feeling hot again and he starts speaking quickly, stumbling over his own words. ‘I don’t really want to _take a moment_ right now. All you people always tell me I should take responsibility for myself and support the healing process and seek happiness, but then when I try to do just that, you’re not helping me and you’re telling me to stop instead!’ He throws his arms in the air. ‘I’ve really had enough of this shit! I’ve found something which made me feel healthy, I lost it and I’m going to get it back if I have to do it all by myself!’ 

He hates the fact that Healer Averill’s expression remains calm, composed and attentive all through his rant. When she opens her mouth to speak, he closes his eyes and tries to Apparate, but then remembers there are permanent Anti-Apparition Wards all around the building. 

Perhaps that’s not to let patients who are dissatisfied with the Healer’s services disappear without paying, Harry thinks maliciously as he turns to the exit wall and steps from foot to foot waiting for the door to fully materialize. 

‘Mister Potter,’ the Healer tries again from behind his back, but Harry is already halfway through the door and then he’s running down the stairs, panting, having absolutely no idea what he’s going to do next. It’s hopeless. His heart is thumping in his chest, his blood rushing, his head is starting to hurt again and he feels weak and tired... 

He stops when he hears footsteps on the staircase below him. For a moment, he contemplates turning back or climbing higher than the third floor. He doesn’t fancy meeting another high-profile nutcase at this very moment. But then he decides he couldn’t really care less and resumes his sprint down. 

He takes the curve on the first floor landing and stops abruptly as the two people a few steps below look up at him, their brows furrowed. 

He has the impression that his heart has stopped as everything around him stills and comes to a sudden halt. 

‘Harry...’ Hermione says under her breath and she and Ron run the few remaining steps and crowd in on Harry, Hermione closing him in her arms from the front, Ron in his from the back and Harry knows they’re both making sure not to squeeze too tightly and not to cover his mouth in any way. 

He feels all tension leave him instantly and lets himself slump between them. 

‘Shh... we’re here now,’ Ron says quietly into his ear. 

***

Some time later, Harry is sprawled on the sofa, his head and the top of his back lying against Ron’s stomach, his friend’s strong fingers working his shoulders loose. Harry’s feet are resting on a pillow and in Hermione’s lap. He groans as she works her knuckles into the sole of his left foot. 

He’s closed his eyes, his stomach is full and he’s warm, but not hot and he has been feeling calm for almost an hour now, which is a small success, considering his today’s track record. 

‘You’re not too comfortable, are you?’ Ron jeers and Harry smiles at the tone of his voice. 

‘Not at all,’ he replies. 

Harry opens his eyes and sees Hermione watching him. 

‘So, you didn’t feel like a therapy session, then, did you?’ 

Harry scowls. 

‘No. I’ve been trapped inside my own head all day today, didn’t really fancy delving even deeper.’ 

‘But you _are_ going to go to your next scheduled regular session...?’ 

‘Yeah. Yeah, I am. I know I need to work this through... It’s just... today really wasn’t the day.’ 

Hermione hums her understanding. 

After a moment of silence, Harry feels Ron’s hands wrap around his arms. 

‘And you _do_ know you can _always_ call us when you’re... well...’ 

Harry raises his hand to squeeze Ron’s fingers. 

‘Yeah, I do. I just... I got dead set on fixing this thing with Malfoy and I... I didn’t think.’ 

Hermione raises her eyes towards Ron and Harry can only see one half of the exchange of _the look_ , but he recognizes it nevertheless. He closes his eyes, wincing. 

‘Yeah, I know it’s weird, but I really had a good time with him yesterday...’ 

‘Well, that’s understandable,’ Hermione says. 

Harry’s eyes snap open. 

Huh. Maybe he was wrong about the look. Maybe it was a different kind of look. 

‘What do you mean, ‘understandable’?’ 

‘Well,’ Hermione gazes straight ahead, now doing something very nice to Harry’s toes. ‘We’ve all been through a lot. But the two of you were placed in circumstances which escape anyone’s grasp, however empathic one would try to be... So I guess it’s no wonder you’ve made a connection now. You never had that much in common before. Now you do.’ Ron makes a sound like he wants to say something, but Hermione continues quickly. ‘And... since you... well, distanced yourself from us quite a bit – which is fine,’ she raises her palm in a calming gesture, ‘because we do understand you need your space and time to put everything back in place – well... it’s no wonder you’re looking for new people...’ 

‘If only those people were actually _new_ and not... rehashed...’ Ron complains from behind Harry. 

Harry gives it some thought. 

‘Malfoy’s... well, in a way, he’s Malfoy, still, no doubt, but on the other hand, he’s very much... a new person... if you know what I mean?’ 

Harry suspects they don’t, as neither of them responds. 

Another moment passes and Ron bends his head a little, his face coming to hang over Harry’s. 

‘Anyway, just to make use of this wonderful opportunity of having you here, relaxed and willing to listen and gooey from all the massages,’ Ron widens his eyes to highlight his point while his hands dig into Harry’s shoulders. ‘It’s no big deal, and you don’t have to react in any way right now, but I was made to promise that I would pass the message on, and so here I am... Andromeda’s very much willing to invite you over.’ 

Harry winces. He thinks of little Teddy, whom he hasn’t seen in long months, missing his first birthday among other things, and his heart clenches at the thought of yet another parentless child in the world, this one thanks to Harry. Because he needed people to fight for him, to die for him. Because he himself couldn’t die fast enough to save them. 

He feels his feet being squeezed. 

‘Hey,’ Hermione’s tone is teasingly reproachful. ‘None of that now, we’re massaging here, don’t spoil it for us.’ 

Harry breathes in slowly – through the nose, one, two, three, four, five, six – and smiles a little. 

He really loves these two, he does. They get him, they support him, they are more forgiving than they have any right to be and they’re so good that he probably doesn’t deserve them. But at the same time, the fact that they _know_ him makes it so much more difficult to do anything differently when he’s near them. And also, the fact that _they_ have each other and they moved on together while Harry hasn’t... 

_I cannot begin to imagine what they’ve been through,_ Harry remembers Healer Averill say, _but as far as I know, _they_ don’t suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder._

Yeah, they don’t. 

Does Malfoy? 

‘You wanna hear what’s new at DAWN?’ Hermione’s voice breaks through to him. 

Ah, DAWN. She must still be rather proud of herself for coming up with that. Probably not so proud of Harry, who manipulated her into taking over Dependable Aid for the Wizardly Neglected after a month of 16-hour-long working days, three mild panic attacks and one complete and total mental breakdown. 

He cannot fathom how he could come up with the idea of starting a charity whose main goal would be to integrate into the wizarding community those magical orphans who were assigned to Muggle guardians for lack of other options. Now it just seems presumptuous to him, and slightly racist if he’s to be honest. 

Back then it probably had something to do with the anger towards Dumbledore Harry discovered in himself as he started truly analyzing and evaluating the old man’s influence on his life. 

Hermione keeps talking about the events they’re organizing and the children she’s met and the people who’ve helped them, but Harry is hardly listening, his eyelids getting heavy as he’s dozing off. 

He awakes when Ron squirms, disentangling himself from under Harry’s body and hauling him up gently. Hermione takes his other side, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. There’s talk of a shower as he is pulled into the bathroom. 

‘I’m going to get rid of the alcohol, all right, Harry?’ Hermione says quietly into his ear. 

He nods numbly because he knows that’s what he’s supposed to do to _look after himself_.

Hermione leaves and Ron helps him shower and a short while later he’s put to bed and they both kiss his forehead goodnight in turn. 

He buries himself in the sheets. They’re cold and nothing like a good warm blanket. With tassels. He’s missing a warmth behind his back. The memory is distant. He turns to his other side, grunting. He can’t believe it has only been... what? Twenty hours, maybe? Twenty hours ago he was pushed dangerously close to the edge of the sofa as Malfoy wrapped himself around his back as if it was the most natural thing for the two of them to do. 

He can’t remember the previous time he had been the little spoon. 

Suddenly he’s hot again. He thrashes on the bed, discarding the sheets. The window is open, but the air in the room smells stale. 

He would lull himself to sleep with a few glasses of something strong, but this option flew out of the window with Hermione being a good friend. 

He opens his eyes. The room is dark. The house breathes, the wooden panels on the walls creaking. He thinks he can hear soft snoring in the distance. Must be one of the portraits. 

Harry’s pretty sure whoever is snoring, they’re not sitting in a puddle of water at the same time. 

He jumps out of bed. 

Fuck it. There’s nothing he can do about Malfoy, apparently, but maybe he can do _something_ with someone else. 

***

The club pulses with a steady beat of music, quite a lot of people moving together on the dancefloor in a tangle of limbs despite it being a Monday night. 

Harry likes these Muggle places. They’re simple. Come with a straightforward instructions manual of sorts. He can go through the motions with his eyes closed by now. 

He moves downstairs to the quieter of the two bars. There’s slightly more light here and there are fewer people, but he doesn’t feel like risking another headache. 

There’s only one other person at the bar, an ordinary-looking dark-skinned girl, her black hair long, falling in gentle waves down her arms and her back. She’s leaning on the countertop and towards the bartender, a sly look on her face. 

Harry props his forearms up on the bar and waits. A minute passes but the bartender pays him no mind, completely engrossed in conversation with the girl, who’s now sitting on one of the high stools, her leg dangling carelessly, her short skirt riding up her thigh. She’s wearing high black boots which are just a little wider at the top than the smooth calves they hide. 

Harry looks at the bartender and clears his throat. Both his and the girl’s eyes are instantly on him. 

‘Can I get a drink?’ he asks. 

‘Oh, you’ve got a restless one, Tony,’ the girl jeers to the bartender, then looks back at Harry. ‘Hold your horses, pretty boy, I ordered first.’ 

Harry rolls his eyes. 

‘Well, it didn’t seem like your drink was getting anywhere near to being ready, so...’ 

The girl scoffs. 

‘There’s more to serving a drink than making it.’ 

Harry waves his hand dismissively at her and waits for her sickly blue coctail with a paper umbrella to be handed to her. How much more pretentious could you possibly get? 

He orders a whisky straight up. The bartender named Tony pours it and passes it on to him, accepting his money without a word. Apparently, there’s nothing more to serving a drink than making it in Harry’s case. 

He takes his drink and turns around, leaning back against the bar. He plants his elbows on the high countertop, deliberately letting his t-shirt ride up and reveal some of the skin above the waistband of his jeans. He pushes his hips out, relaxing his body and takes a leisurely sip from his glass. 

He thinks he can hear a snort from his left, but when he turns his head, the dark-haired girl is lazily stirring her drink with the colourful umbrella, listening to Tony, though seeming slightly bored. 

Harry’s eyes roam around the room. What is he looking for exactly? Excitement? Relief? Oblivion? _Who_ is he looking for? Someone to make him feel _alive_. Someone to make him feel as if he’s having a wand fight and laughing at the same time. 

‘Hi there,’ a pleasant voice says from somewhere to his right. 

A young man leans against the bar to Harry’s side. He looks a bit older than Harry and he’s at least a head taller, slender, his skin a warm golden brown shade. His long fingers are wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle. He has long dark blond hair, tied at the back of his head, a few loose strands tucked behind his ear. His big hazel eyes focus on Harry’s face attentively and there’s a tentative smile on his dark pink lips. 

He’s good-looking, seems pleasant and kind. 

Is this what Harry’s looking for? 

‘How you doing?’ the man asks. 

Harry eyes him up and down and smiles lazily, raising the whisky glass to his lips instead of replying. 

The man clears his throat. 

‘What’s your name?’ 

This is not what Harry’s looking for. 

He maintains the eye contact while downing the remainder of his drink. 

The man chuckles. 

He has a nice laugh. 

‘How about I get you another one of whatever it is you’re drinking?’ 

Ah, fuck it. Whatever. He’ll do. 

Harry sets the empty glass on the bar behind himself and tilts his head, looking up at the man. 

‘How about I take you back to mine instead?’ he replies. 

The man’s brow furrows and he pushes away from the bar uneasily. He looks at Harry for a moment with what looks like slight disappontment and then takes a step back. 

‘No, thanks, but... have a good night.’ He raises his bottle in lieu of farewell and goes away. 

Harry slumps against the bar, running his hand through his hair and groaning at the man’s retreating back. 

This time around, he has no doubt he can hear a snort from his left. 

When he whips his head towards the dark-haired girl, she’s facing him with a distinctive smirk, her bright black eyes piercing him. Tony is nowhere to be seen. 

The girl crosses her legs slowly and raises an eyebrow. Her forehead crinkles. 

‘Smooth,’ she drawls mockingly. 

Harry can feel his heartbeat speed up as he turns towards her. 

He grins. 

Now, _that’s_ more like it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can spot all the places in this chapter where Draco is present while being absent and unreferred to, ... well, congrats, cause I don't even know how many of these there are. ;) Hope you enjoyed!


	4. Chapter 4

_There is only one corner of the universe you can be certain of improving, and that’s your own self.  
\- Aldous Huxley_

‘...stumbles in, middle of the night, not minding that Master will wake old Kreacher up, oh, not minding one bit, why would Master mind old Kreacher and his sleep... stumbles in, a troll in the hallway, the coat rack, the umbrella stand, all scattered about... a mystery how Master did not fall and faint right there on the rug, a right mystery how Master managed to stumble all the way down to the kitchen, looking to deplete the potion supply some more, no doubt… a right mystery how Master managed to stumble down in this state and only fall on his face on the floor here... ’

Harry lifts his head with difficulty. His skull is pounding and his cheek feels wet and sticky. He looks down and sees a pool of drool on the floor. He scowls, trying to shift away from it. He feels something restraining his movements and realises that he is covered with a blanket.

No swaying tassels, moving with a lean body. Harry closes his eyes again.

‘...lying on the cold floor, intent on finding his death, Master is, night after night after night,’ Kreacher continues muttering viciously. ‘And what is old Kreacher to do? Kreacher can only hide in his cupboard for so long. And Kreacher tried, oh, how Kreacher tried to hide and wait out all the...’

’Kreacher,’ Harry pleads in a weak voice, ‘please be quiet.’

’Oh, Master would like Kreacher to be quiet, Master would like to sleep some more, Master would like to keep lying on the floor, feeling sorry for himself...’

‘Kreacher,’ Harry whines.

He tries to push himself up and feels the floor tickle his palms with a Warming Charm. He looks around.

The kitchen is dim, only slightly brightened by the light that seeps in through the dirty narrow windows high under the ceiling. It’s hard to tell what time of the day it is, but Harry suspects it must be early afternoon. He doesn’t really remember coming back home, but he knows it was still dark when the chill of the park bench finally made him pull up his trousers and stagger home. He’s not sure what happened to... Kayla? Was that her name?

Shit.

Harry’s view is partly obstructed by the long wooden table in the middle of the room, but as Kreacher moves along the counter on the other side, Harry can catch glimpses of the top of his head, pale tan and bald, with his bat-like ears and white hair sprouting from them copiously. Lower, between the table and the chair legs, Kreacher’s big bare feet plop angrily.

Along the counter, pots and pans levitate and swirl, crashing and scraping against each other in mid-flight, emitting shrill sounds that hurt Harry’s ears. 

He manages to partly disentangle himself from the blanket and sit up. He rubs his temples, closing his eyes.

‘Kreacher, I understand you’re angry, but for fuck’s sake, _please_ , would you keep it down?’

There is an exceptionally sharp clanking sound as something crashes again.

‘Oh, Kreacher is not angry, how could old Kreacher dare be angry at Master Harry?’ Kreacher mutters a little louder, ‘Master Harry, who appreciates Kreacher’s devotion to serving him, who cherishes this noble house he has been given the privilege of owning, who values the priceless heirlooms amassed here by generations of proud Black family members, who honours the history and the magic permeating every room and every corridor...’

‘Kreacher!’ Harry groans.

He hears slow footsteps on the floor, accompanied by more indistinct grumbling and sees Kreacher emerge from behind the table in all of his wrinkled-skinned, filthy-rug-covered glory. The elf’s face is a permanent, all-encompassing scowl. He’s holding up a bowl in one hand, a spelled spoon stirring the steaming contents in lazy circles. Kreacher stops in front of Harry and holds out a potion bottle in his other palm. 

Harry winces and accepts the Hangover Potion.

He remembers he welcomed the familiar label more fondly when the bottle came as one of a pair.

He downs the potion, feeling instantly more clear-headed, and gives the bottle back to Kreacher. The elf’s bowl-bearing hand lowers towards Harry’s face and his nostrils fill with a heavy aroma of meat and vegetables and thyme. Mmm... His mouth waters.

‘Would Master Harry like to have breakfast at the table or would he prefer to eat off the floor?’ Kreacher inquires solemnly, bowing in half.

Harry rolls his eyes, but he can’t help smiling to himself. Trust the bloody old elf to be here for him and mask his concern with rude remarks. Harry gets to his feet.

‘All right, all right, I’m up now, see?’

The elf slams the bowl onto the table and shuffles back to the counter, starting to put away leftover food and spell the pots clean.

Harry picks up and folds the blanket, glancing at the elf’s back.

Here is yet another someone he takes for granted. Mind you, this one really is a piece of work, coming out of his cupboard nest mainly to grumble and moan. The house is a right mess, as Kreacher’s insistence on _cherishing_ it doesn’t seem to include actually _cleaning_ it, but Harry can’t remember the last time he went grocery shopping and yet the ice box and the cupboards are always filled with food. And then there are the times when Harry _stumbles in, middle of the night_ and passes out only to wake up on a charm-warmed floor, covered with a blanket, the smell of food in the air. 

He throws the folded blanket onto one of the chairs and pulls out another, sits down and brings the bowl closer. He catches the spoon, stopping its circular movements. 

‘Kreacher,’ he says at the elf’s back but there is no reaction. ‘Kreacher?’ Harry tries again, more softly. When Kreacher just keeps levitating pots into cupboards, Harry takes a deep breath. ‘Kreacher, this is not an order, but I’d really appreciate it if you looked at me, please.’

The elf freezes and everything falls silent. After a moment, there is a quiet grumbling sound and he turns around slowly to face Harry, but his black eyes roam the floor somewhere to his left.

‘Thank you, Kreacher,’ Harry says clearly.

The elf’s gaze darts to him for just a split second, then is back on the floor as Kreacher’s scowl deepens.

‘Master Harry should eat his food unless he fancies a cold stew,’ the elf mutters, turning his back on Harry again.

Harry half-smiles to himself and picks up the spoon. The bowl is filled with a thick brown mixture, pieces of meat, carrots, beans and celery stalks in a creamy fragrant sauce.

Harry bows his head and inhales over the bowl purposefully before tucking in.

He’s halfway through the contents of the bowl and trying to figure out how not to make the day spiral down into the madness that was yesterday when his mind starts getting hazy. Pushing away the bowl, he decides to breathe through it – whatever _it_ is. He folds his hands on the tabletop and lays his forehead down on them. Inhale – one, two, three, four, five, six and exhale – one, two, three...

He can hear pots and pans clattering, but all he can see is someone wearing a long black cloak with tassels. _The biggest snake you can find!_ the figure shouts and burps and a moment later a tiara falls into a puddle of water on the ground as Harry swats the figure over the head with a flower-pattered cushion. The figure laughs and starts sneezing uncontrollably and Harry doesn’t understand why, but the sound makes his gut clench. 

Suddenly the room is flooded with light and Harry squints. When his eyes get used to it, he sees that he’s in a corridor whose walls and ceiling are built of stained glass in multi-coloured flowery patterns. He swirls on the spot, trying to find the figure in the black cloak, but they’re nowhere to be seen. He thinks he can hear someone say his name, but the sound is faint and distant and he doesn’t recognise the voice. A single white quill falls to the floor. Harry frowns at it. When he looks to the ground, he sees it is littered with pieces of parchment, old newspapers and magazines and there’s a big snail moving slowly right in the middle of it, its shell covered with spikes and gradually changing colours. It seems to Harry that the snail is leading the way.

He gets to his knees and starts following the snail along the corridor on all fours, his palms getting in the sticky mess it’s leaving behind. The sluggish crawl lasts for what feels like an eternity, but Harry is certain that there is a destination to their journey.

Suddenly he feels a light touch on his forehead and he stops and sits up, running his palm against it, but there’s nothing there.

 _He’s all right, he’s breathing normally,_ he hears a distant voice echo around the glass walls.

 _How could the bloody old sod do something like this?_ Ron’s outraged whisper fills the air.

Harry looks around the empty corridor.

‘Ron?’

 _Shush, Ron,_ Hermione’s hushed voice fills his ears. _I’m sure he meant well. At least he’ll get some proper rest for once. Come on._

‘Hermione?’ Harry calls louder.

He can hear a door creak, but there isn’t a door anywhere and when everything falls silent, he keeps following the snail. Finally, the animal stops, its shell a blend of green and yellow, its tentacles moving curiously. Harry lifts his head and sits up.

The corridor ends with a wall in front of him and in the low centre of it, just above the ground, hangs a Dilys Derwent portrait. She has her back turned to him as she stands in front of a filing cabinet overgrown with swirly ivy-like plants that grow out of a few open drawers. She closes one of the drawers and the plant giggles as she turns around. She smiles at Harry and beckons him forward. He approaches the wall, still on his knees and as he gets very close, the portrait seems to expand and he stumbles through it and into a room, but it’s not Headmistress Derwent’s study. It’s Healer Averill’s waiting room and the same portrait is on the wall, but Dilys Derwent is nowhere to be seen. 

Harry pulls himself up and falls onto the familiar sofa. It comes to his mind that he has to wait for the bookcase to slide open, but then he looks down and the ground under his feet is no longer wall-to-wall carpeting in a dull shade of green, but pavement. Suddenly between his legs there’s a black-haired head bending down and fingers start crawling up his thighs. He inhales deeply, feeling his cock twitch, but then there’s a pressure behind him and he tries to look around to see who it is, but he can’t. He feels someone nudge him forwards and pull him down and then the person kneeling on the pavement is gone and all he can feel is the chill of the early morning air on his face, the hardness of the bench against his ribs, the warm body snuggled behind him, the warm breath on the nape of his neck and the blanket which someone tucks under his chin, the tassels momentarily tickling his nose. He pushes back into the warmth along his back and closes his eyes. 

When he wakes up, it takes him a moment to realise that he’s in his own bedroom. He’s expected to wake up on the bench… in the park... Oh. No. Not in the park. In the kitchen. On the floor? No. At the table?

He can’t remember how he got into his own bed, but the puzzle evaporates from his mind as he fully comes to and squirms and notices he’s naked under the sheets and also very, very hard. Did he dream about something nice? He spits into his right hand and wiggles it under the sheets. He closes his eyes, trying to recall the dream as his hand travels down his body. He can’t remember what he dreamed about but he remembers it was nice - nice on his thighs, nice behind his back, nice on the back of his neck… He wanks himself off, sinking into the flashes of sensations and comes rather unspectacularly. He takes a few deep breaths and waves his hand to spell himself clean - and of course it only half-works, his fingers remaining slightly sticky. He’s always been shite at cleaning spells, force of Muggle habit, he supposes… And that’s when the memories start flooding back in.

Malfoy. Luna. Healer Averill. Hermione. Ron. The boy at the Quibbler. The man in the club. Kayla...?

He wishes he could go back to sleep. Not deal with the aftermath of yet another nutty outbreak. But he’s feeling strangely well-rested and he doesn’t think he could fall asleep again.

He sits on the bed, heaving a sigh, grabs his glasses off the bedside table and sees a fresh set of clothes, nicely folded and waiting on a chair opposite. Kreacher. 

He heads for the bathroom, levitating the clothes along. He takes a quick shower, brushes his teeth, gets dressed and heads down in search of Kreacher. 

The last thing he now recalls is the stew that Kreacher made him. What happened then?

The house is silent as he walks down the stairs. He suspects he must have slept for a few hours, but it can’t be late yet as most of the portraits are empty, which means their regular occupants are still enjoying their afternoon out, having better things to do than sitting and moping, as one of them informed Harry that one time he got the illadvised idea to ask. 

Harry gets down to the kitchen and he looks around. On the long wooden table there’s a folded piece of parchment and a sealed envelope which someone heavily doodled on, covering the edges in swirly patterns. Hermione and Ron and Luna, no doubt. Harry sighs and grabs the letters on his way down the table and to Kreacher’s cupboard.

He squats in front of it and knocks gently.

‘Kreacher?’

Nothing breaks the silence, but Harry isn’t fooled that easily. He knocks again.

‘Kreacher, you in there?’

Still nothing. Harry sighs.

‘Kreacher, I need your help with something. Could you help me, please?’

There is a silent pause and then the door of the cupboard springs open, hitting Harry right in the knee. He hisses, rolls back on his heels and lands on the floor, casting aside the letters in a flurry of parchment and ink. He starts rubbing his knee as the door opens fully. Harry can see Kreacher’s ragged form inside, his legs pulled up to his chest. The shelves on the back wall and the corners of the cupboard are cluttered with all kinds of old and filthy objects or mere parts of them that Kreacher has been nicking from around the house and accumulating here for years now. The elf’s dark eyes are narrowed and roaming the floor at Harry’s feet.

‘Hi, Kreacher.’

Kreacher’s eyes dart up for a moment, then are back on the floor.

‘Master Harry,’ he rasps.

‘Thanks for the clothes and all the help earlier…’

The elf pulls his legs up more, closing his wiry arms around them tightly.

‘Master Harry said he needed help,’ Kreacher grumbles. ‘Does he or doesn’t he? If Master only said so to make Kreacher open the cupboard, Kreacher would rather close the door now if Master doesn’t mind all too terribly…’

Harry smiles.

‘Oh, but I do need your help,’ he says. ‘The last thing I remember is you serving me some delicious stew and the next thing I know, I’m waking up in my bed upstairs. Did I fall asleep here or something?’

Kreacher squirms uncomfortably.

‘Yes, Master Harry fell asleep at the table.’

‘Oh. And you put me to bed…?’

‘Kreacher did…’

‘Oh.’ He searches his mind, but he can’t recall any of that. He supposes he must have been very tired to fall asleep like that… No wonder, really. After the events of yesterday.

‘Thanks.’ He looks around and remembers the letters. ‘Hermione and Ron were here in the meantime? And Luna owled?’

Kreacher lifts his head and glances at the letters, then nods.

‘Oh. Well, thanks for the help with that, too. How long was I asleep exactly?’

Kreacher mumbles something Harry can’t make out, so he waves his hand, casting a Tempus. It’s nearing half past six.

‘Four or five hours or something?’ Harry sighs and grabs the letters, making to get up. ‘Well, I better write them back, let them know I’m all right…’

Kreacher hugs his legs tighter and turns his head towards the back wall of his cupboard, mumbling again.

‘Pardon?’

‘Twenty nine,’ the elf mutters. 

‘Twenty…’ Harry echoes, sagging back to the floor. ‘Twenty nine…? Hours?’

Kreacher hunches even more as if trying to shrink and disappear. Harry looks around to the magical wall calendar next to the ice box. Even from here he can see the red circle around the big black 5 in the middle of the row of numbers. The fifth of May. The fifth… Harry whips his head back.

‘It’s Wednesday?’

Kreacher inhales sharply and gives a curt nod, still firmly turned away from Harry. His thin arm moves minutely and Harry notices his hand rise towards the shelf and his fingers slowly close around the base of an old brass candlestick.

‘Kreacher, leave the candlestick!’ Harry calls sharply, pointing.

Kreacher gives off a whining sound, his fingers curl and retract, but a second later his hand extends again towards a heavy-looking leather-bound book.

‘Kreacher!’ Harry shouts. ‘I forbid you to hit yourself!’

The elf’s hand drops to his lap and his head turns around, the white hair spilling our of his ears, his wrinkled face frozen in a fierce scowl, his eyebrows drawn, his gaze hateful.

‘Yes, yes,’ Harry rolls his eyes and waves his arms in an exaggerated gesture. ‘Master Harry is a terrible wizard, he won’t let you punish yourself, he is sending thousands of years of proud elvish tradition of self-harm down the drain…’

Kreacher’s still giving him a murderous look and Harry notices that he is now also starting to tremble.

‘All right,’ Harry scoots closer to him. ‘All right, Kreacher. Erm…’ He rakes his hand through his hair and searches his mind for the right way to put this. He’s done it before and it worked. It’s all in the wording. ‘Erm… Your punishment is… erm… Your punishment is to hurt your pride by telling me… how you failed in your service to me.’ 

He looks at Kreacher, slightly apprehensive. He isn’t sure this is going to work, but after a moment the small wiry body sags a bit and Kreacher’s scowl relaxes. He’s still wearing a deep frown, though and his eyes flip back to the dark corners of the cupboard.

‘Master Harry has not been well,’ Kreacher mumbles. ‘Master Harry has been stumbling about, sleeping on the floor, soiling priceless antiques…’ Harry winces, remembering the fruit bowl. ‘Master did not call for Kreacher, so Kreacher tried to mind his own business. Master’s friends came over and Kreacher hoped Master would get better, but then Master went out again and Kreacher found Master passed out on the kitchen floor. And all Kreacher wanted was to have a quiet day.’ The elf’s eyes dart up to Harry for a moment and the look in them suggests Harry’s the bane of Kreacher’s existence. ‘And also for Master to have a rest,’ the elf continues very quietly, turning away again. ‘So Kreacher made Master some stew and added some sleeping potion without Master knowing,’ he finishes, his voice falling to a whisper.

‘Oh…’

Well, the day-long gap makes much more sense now. It’s just that… isn’t Sleeping Draught supposed to cause _dreamless_ sleep? Harry’s certain he dreamed _something_ …

‘What kind of potion was it, Kreacher?’

The elf looks up at him, eyes reproachful.

‘One from the grand potion supply of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black in the basement, of course,’ he says.

Harry raises his eyebrows.

‘There is a grand potion supply of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black in the basement?’ he asks faintly.

The elf’s frown deepens and the scowl returns.

Harry waves his hand.

‘You know what, Kreacher, don’t answer that, never mind. Just… next time you decide to slip potion into my food, make sure it’s fresher than a hundred years, will you?’ 

The elf stares at him with a mix of confusion and incredulity and Harry decides it’s probably high time to let him off the hook.

‘Is there any of the stew left, Kreacher? Would you mind heating something up for me? It was quite delicious if I recall correctly, though this time I’d like to try it potion-free, if possible…?’

Harry smiles tentatively and Kreacher heaves a martyr’s sigh and pulls himself up and out of the cupboard.

Harry gathers the letters and stands up.

‘I’ll be right back down.’

Kreacher grumbles in response as he heads towards the ice box and Harry sprints up the stairs and to his room. He sits down at his desk and opens the envelope, tearing across the swirly doodles along the edge. The folded parchment hidden inside is spelled to gradually change colours, all pastel and soft-hued. When Harry pulls it out and opens it, he is suddently enveloped by a heady flowery smell, like in a meadow on a hot summer day. He smiles to himself.

He wants to start reading at the top, but his eyes are suddenly drawn downwards as he catches sight of the last sentence, written below the main short body of text in curved, left-skewed letters.

 _Draco owled me from work. He’s doing fine._

Harry inhales sharply and slumps against the back of the chair, staring at the script.

_Draco owled me from work._

Suddenly the past few days seem so utterly, unbelievably ridiculous. Did he really fling himself into a manic episode over Draco Malfoy’s job? Which, apparently, Draco Malfoy did not require Harry’s help keeping at all. Just like he said he didn’t.

Harry thows back his head and groans.

‘Fuck,’ he says forcefully at the ceiling. ‘I am such a fucking idiot.’

He remembers the fight in Luna’s kitchen and he can’t be sure what he said exactly but the very fact that he can’t remember says a lot in itself. What he does remember is the feeling of guilt and the urge to make up for… everything. For keeping Malfoy up, making him listen to Harry’s shit. For keeping him for breakfast. For his wrinkled forehead. For the marks on other parts of his body, maybe…

Harry feels his chest tighten. He bends back over the desk and shakes his head, closing his eyes and focusing on evening out his breathing.

Nope. Not going there right now. No way. Not again.

He concentrates on the good memories. The laughing. The impersonations. The pillow fight. The wandless magic lesson. The spooning. 

The feeling of being healthy, alive. The feeling of being excited about another day.

He wants to get this back. He _needs_ to get this back.

He opens his eyes.

_Draco owled me from work._

Huh. Last time Harry spoke to her, Luna said Malfoy would mind her talking about his job. Does this sentence mean Malfoy agreed for Luna to answer Harry’s question? Suddenly Harry’s head is spinning. He grabs a piece of paper and a pen and more sees than feels his hand tremble. He takes a deep breath and jots down a short ‘I’m-a-screw-up-thank-you-for-putting-up-with-me-I’m-better-now’ note and when he finally gets to the end of the message, he writes, ‘ _Let Malfoy know I’d like to meet_.’ He looks at the text and after a moment of deliberation, waves his hand to adjust the line and adds a ‘ _If you get the chance, please_ ’ at the beginning. 

He folds the piece of parchment, puts Luna’s name on it and sets it aside, then reads the note from Hermione and Ron and replies shortly, letting them know he’s all right and inviting them to drop by later in the evening. 

Just as he finishes the message, there is a loud crack and Harry jumps in his chair, startled.

‘Master Harry’s dinner is waiting for him in the kitchen under a warming charm,’ Kreacher mutters, his head bowed. ‘Unless Master Harry insists on his preference of a cold stew…’

Harry rolls his eyes and turns his head to look at the elf.

‘Thank you, Kreacher, great, thanks.’

The elf bows lower.

‘Anything else Master needs?’

‘Yes, for you to give up on the theatrics,’ Harry mutters.

The elf raises his head, his look lethal.

Harry smiles a little.

‘Yes, Kreacher, could you owl these letters for me, please?’

The elf takes the letters, bows and disappears into thin air.

Harry snorts and shakes his head. He goes down to the kitchen and on the way to the table, he stops in front of the calendar. Wednesday, the fifth of May is circled in red and to the right, Thursday, the sixth of May is closed in a green rectangle and the letters ‘HA’ are floating next to it.

Harry sighs and thinks of tomorrow’s session. 

He hasn’t had that much to work through in a while, that’s for sure.

***

Harry doesn’t often take the couch. He feels it is such a terrible cliche. He usually sits in the big comfy armchair, squirming around to fling his legs over the right armrest on his better days.

Today, Harry has taken the couch. It seemed… fitting, somehow. He’s stretched out on the long sofa, the upholstery in a deep shade of chocolate, his ankles crossed, his toes flexing, his trainers on the floor. He thinks he can see a hole forming where his left foot big toe is, so he tries to make sure to keep his right foot on top. His hands are behind his head, squeezing a soft cushion he’s resting his head on. For what has probably been well over half an hour, Harry has been talking at the pale blue ceiling. With the corner of his eye, he can sometimes catch the end of Healer Averill’s dark grey Self-Writing Quill as it swirls frantically over the paper pad on the desk in its attempts to keep up with Harry’s stream of words.

Harry recounts the events of the last few days, starting with the anniversary party at Luna’s. He talks about how carefree, how alive, how happy, how healthy he felt and how much it hurt when he himself shattered it to pieces the very next morning. He briefly mentions the antagonistic nature of his and Malfoy’s relationship back at school and during the war, though he is quite sure that Healer Averill knows who Draco Malfoy is - pretty much everybody does, thanks to _The Prophet_ ’s post-war trial reports - and he doesn’t leave out the main cause of his guilt. _I nearly killed him once_ costs him the evenness of his breath to verbalise, but he takes a moment and then trudges on nonetheless. He talks about the morning, making Malfoy stay for breakfast, causing him to be late for work, wanting to make up for all the mistakes, wanting to help and being denied the chance, later finding out his help really was unnecessary. He meanders and digresses, talking about the recent whirlwind of emotions - feeling depressed, alive, happy, guilty, useless, miserable, determined, confused, calm, relieved, hopeful. He apologizes for how brusque he was when Luna brought him to Healer Averill on Monday. He says he has since realised most of this latest episode boils down, yet again, to his feelings of guilt and his semi-narcissistic attitude, but he just doesn’t seem to be able to reign himself in as it happens.

Suddenly he runs out of things to say. The story has been told. What now? He had so many questions to ask Healer Averill, he remembers filing them away for later, but they seem to have since evaporated from his memory. He grabs the back seat and pulls himself up to a sitting position with a grunt. He props his elbows on his thighs and looks at the Healer.

She is sitting in an armchair across from him and slightly to the side, her legs crossed. She is flipping through the filled pages of the pad, the quill now lying idly on the desktop. She is dressed casually, as usual, in smart grey trousers and a simple pressed dark green blouse. In Harry’s eyes, she always radiates composure and a warm kind of serenity which Harry finds very soothing. Her short dark hair curls around her head. As she raises it, her black eyes are calm and focused.

Sometimes Harry cannot believe someone could be that non-judgmental.

‘You mentioned that your relationship with Mister Malfoy was never amicable,’ she says. ‘Why, then, did you decide to interact with him at the party?’

Harry straightens, somewhat startled by the question. He takes a breath and falls back onto the back of the couch, his eyes roaming the room.

He thinks back to that moment and wonders how to put it best. There really is no other way of saying it, though.

‘He did a hilarious Voldemort impersonation,’ he replies matter-of-factly, looking back at the Healer.

Her eyebrows shoot up and it may very well be the first time Harry has seen them in this particular position. She has never expressed surprise at anything he said in the past and yet, here they are.

‘Also, I was very drunk,’ Harry adds, and after a moment’s silence, ‘Well, at the start at least, I was drunk… We both were. Then, later on, we slept a little and then he sobered me up and it just… kept on being… good.’

Healer Averill nods her head. Her eyebrows have returned to their default position.

‘I see. What do you think made the interaction so enjoyable?’

Harry gives it some thought. 

_That tends to happen when you insist on spending most of your time dying repeatedly,_ Malfoy’s drawl echoes in his head. 

Harry smiles to himself.

‘I s’ppose because… he didn’t spare me?’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘He… he didn’t mollycoddle me, as people usually tend to do. He made fun of me, made everything seem less… serious, less threatening. As if my problems weren’t that big a deal. As if, from an outsider’s perspective, they weren’t worth any hassle.’

‘Mhm,’ the Healer nods again and a small smile stretches her lips. ‘How do you think this is related to the issue of self-centredness we’ve previously discussed?’

Harry frowns. Self-centredness? How is what Malfoy said related to the issue of self-centredness…?

Suddenly it dawns on him and he nearly gasps.

‘Oh, wow,’ he breathes out, awed. ‘Oh, wow… What he did all night was what you give me as homework every single week…’ Healer Averill’s smile stretches wider. ‘He constantly fired at my self-centredness. He made me _look at myself from a distance_.’

Healer Averill just looks at him for a while in silence, her expression warm. Harry pulls his legs back up on the couch and squirms to the side to lean against the armrest, his mind racing.

‘But… he always used to do that at school and back then it felt horrible… What’s changed?’ he wonders out loud.

Healer Averill tilts her head.

‘Well, it is possible his approach to you has changed, it is possible his remarks back then were meant to hurt, while now they aren’t,’ she says. ‘And it is also possible that your perception of him has changed. Communication is a very complex process. Nothing that is said carries only one and the same meaning to everyone involved and at all times. The sender express a thought and codes the message in a certain way, using their own system of meanings and the receiver decodes the message and arrives at its interpretation using their own. If these two systems differ significantly, the message received may be quite different from the message sent. And then, people’s systems of meanings change over time, so it is possible it is not the message that has changed, but the way we interpret it.’

‘Well, his _system of meanings_ has most definitely changed,’ Harry says. ‘But then again, so has mine, I hope…’

‘Would you say it is possible that they have both evolved in the same direction?’

Harry snorts.

‘As in, “we’ve both been majorly screwed-up by the war”? Yeah, probably.’

Healer Averill tilts her head again and pouts a little.

Harry sighs.

‘Yeah, I mean, I was actually thinking that,’ he explains. ‘That maybe he understands better because he’s been through some tough things, too. I mean, I figured, you don’t go around doing Voldemort impersonations if you have your shit all figured out, right?’

‘It might have been a coping mechanism, but it might also simply have been a display of a bizarre sense of humour,’ the Healer replies. ‘Again, until you get to know someone’s system of meanings really well, and at times even well past that point, all you have is your own interpretation rather than the message they intended to send.’

Harry makes a sound of acknowledgment.

He still thinks you don’t go around doing Voldemort impersonations if you have your shit all figured out.

‘So, it really does make sense that I felt healthy talking to Malfoy,’ Harry picks up. ‘Because he was basically helping my therapeutic process, right? He was helping me take a step back and look at my problems from a distance, yeah? So I was right trying to find him, trying to hold on to that.’

‘Well, again, first and foremost it is important to remember that the interaction felt like a healing experience because _you_ allowed it to, you allowed what Mister Malfoy said to have this effect on you, _you_ projected this power onto him. Which is very valuable. It means you are looking for opportunities for the healing process to take place. Secondly, yes, of course holding on to the things that make you feel healthy is a good idea, but this time the _holding on_ had some undesirable consequences, didn’t it?’ Harry turns his head away and scowls. ‘Shall we talk about why that happened?’

‘I know why that happened,’ Harry says tiredly. ‘Because I think I’m the centre of the fucking universe, because I feel guilty, because I latch onto any possibility of atoning for my sins, because I rarely feel good and when I do, I get blinded by it, because I fall into things head-first, without thinking, because I have survivor’s guilt, because I have a saviour complex, because I wasn’t loved as a child and now I go around trying to help everyone to bind them to myself and make them love me, to feel like I’m worthy, because I feel like that’s all I can do, that’s my only skill…’

Healer Averill raises her hands palms up and motions up and down as if balancing a scale.

Harry sighs.

‘Because I rely on external affirmation instead of internal affirmation while I should be working on balancing them out… Tell me, why does having all this knowledge not help me make the right choices one bit?’

Healer Averill folds her hands over the paper pad in her lap.

‘Because new knowledge starts off as declarative, which means you can recall and verbalise the information. As it gets more and more familiar, it is internalised and slowly becomes procedural, which means it can be applied automatically, without much thought.’

Harry gives Healer Averill an exasperated look.

‘Can we, I dunno, speed up this process somehow…?’

‘We are doing just that, right now, Mister Potter,’ the Healer smiles.

Harry throws his head back and groans at the ceiling.

‘What you can do,’ the Healer says, ignoring his reaction, ‘is to make decisions about how you would like to act in the future and then do your best to carry your plan out. And by _do your best_ I mean exactly that, which is to say put as much effort as you can into it, but do not punish yourself if not everything goes according to plan.’

Harry is still looking at the ceiling. He understands now is the time to decide what he wants to do about Malfoy. And he does want to meet him again, he does want to feel happy again, he wants to do impersonations and he wants to have another pillow fight, but he really doesn’t know how to go about it. He doesn’t know where Malfoy is and whether he would agree to meet at all, what with Harry going off his rocker on Monday, and so everything he can do is wait and remind Luna of his willingness to meet Malfoy from time to time. Apparently, Malfoy neither wants nor needs Harry’s help, but then… Harry has got nothing else to offer him, has he? _Why_ did Malfoy spend all this time with him, anyway?

Healer Averill clears her throat and Harry drops his head to look at her.

‘Could you by any chance take this one?’ he asks, his tone plaintive.

‘Let me start, but you’ll finish, all right?’ 

She smiles a little. Harry nods, sits properly, his feet on the ground, bends forward on the couch and focuses all his attention on her. 

‘Now, affirmation is very healthy and needed and there are ways of getting it which are beneficial to all the parties involved. Giving someone the space they need can give you affirmation, from yourself, because you’ve accomplished something which does not come naturally to you and from them, because you gave them what _they_ needed, not what _you_ thought would be best for them. And that’s another one - letting other people make their own choices, being supportive of their independence can give you affirmation…’ Healer Averill trails off and looks at Harry expectantly.

Harry takes a moment to mull this over.

‘So, basically, I should back off and feel good about it?’

The Healer rolls her eyes theatrically and smiles again.

‘Tell me what your homework is, Mister Potter.’

Harry sighs and bites his lip, reaching for his trainers and pulling them closer.

‘Give people space. Not throw my saviour complex at them. Support their choices, even if they’re not what I’d like them to be. Try to appreciate myself for it. Generally speaking, learn to enjoy not being an overbearing wanker.’

The Healer smiles.

Harry starts putting his shoes back on.

‘Easy-peasy,’ he mutters.

Healer Averill chuckles softly.

‘I’ll see you next week and remember you can always drop by whenever you need to, Mister Potter.’

***

Harry feels exhausted as he Apparates straight back to his bedroom, fully intending to have a good, long nap when he hears frantic tapping and angry low-pitched sounds coming from the the direction of the window. Damn Kreacher, you never know when he’s going to accept the post and when he’s going to snore right through it. It’s only Luna’s owl that usually waits around for him when he’s not home. His heartbeat speeds up. He jumps towards the window and opens the curtain.

The owl pacing on the sill outside and now raising its cinnamon-coloured eyes at him is bigger that Luna’s, with large pointed ears and a white and brown, black-rimmed face. It has a black hooked beak and its feathers are white, brown and black, giving the impression of some kind of a striped pattern. In its beak, the owl is holding a small brown-paper envelope with _Potter_ written on it in elegant, even lettering.

Harry opens the window quickly and reaches for the letter.

‘Hi, sorry you had to wait…’ he starts when suddenly the owl drops the envelope on the sill, jabs at Harry’s outstretched hand sharply with its hard beak and starts stomping on the sill, hooting impatiently and ruffling its feathers. ‘Ow, Jesus, fuck,’ Harry curses and rubs the hurt spot, which is already starting to change colour to a dark red.

He scoops the letter up and turns the brown envelope between his fingers. 

_Potter_

Harry feels something in his chest tighten and he immediately starts counting to even out his breathing. He can’t believe his eyes. A letter addressed with only his family name and a bad-tempered owl…? It can’t be. It’s just too cliched to be true, isn’t it?

He tears the envelope open and inside, finds a single small piece of parchment.

 _Potter,_  
_If you’re quite finished throwing temper tantrums for now,_  
_how about having a drink with me? Tomorrow?_  
_D.M._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to my beta, CurlzForMetal, for all the tips, suggestions and encouragement!

_You are not required to set yourself on fire to make other people warm.  
\- Unknown_

Harry turns on his heel and starts on yet another circle around the small black and white hut in the centre of Soho Square. He dives under one of the wooden arches and tries to give off the impression of casually strolling rather than frantically pacing. The early May evening is warm and there are a lot of people lying and sitting in groups on the grass, loud and brightly coloured, bicycles and bags strewn around them.

Harry has scanned the crowd a few times over now, not really in the hope of finding Malfoy among them - though the fact that it’s here that Malfoy suggested meeting is baffling enough to justify a silly thought or two - but just because he arrived early and would have already beaten a path around the hut if it wasn’t for the pavement under his feet. In the flurry of owl post that followed Malfoy’s invitation yesterday, Harry was given the choice between _a wizarding place with Glamours on or a Muggle place without_ and after recovering from the initial shock caused by the very idea of going somewhere _Muggle with Malfoy_ , he decided he wanted to see Malfoy’s wrinkled forehead again and check for the blue flickers in his grey eyes. When he owled back with _somewhere Muggle, then - trust me to come up with a place?_ , however, he did not expect to receive a message back saying _Soho square, 7pm_.

Harry turns and starts around the hut in the opposite direction again. A girl sitting with a group of friends on the grass nearby seems to be throwing him strange glances now, but Harry doesn’t pay her any mind. He doesn’t know which direction Malfoy is going to arrive from, so his gaze darts from one park gate to another, his eyes squinting as the blurry shapes of people stream in and out of the small square.

He wonders if Malfoy changed his mind about the meeting. He stills, raises his hand and not a moment too soon stops himself from casting a Tempus in front of a whole throng of Muggles. He pretends to cough into his hand and the current time shimmers on the skin of his palm for a few seconds. Three minutes to seven. He stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets and the bruise on his right hand presses against the hem. He brings his hand back up and looks at the small brownish mark located a little bit to the right of his thumb. He flexes his hand, watching the dark skin move and smiles to himself.

He raises his eyes and suddenly catches sight of a bright blond head among the people entering the park through the gate in front of him. The person is dressed in black and matches Malfoy’s build and height as far as Harry can tell, but he can’t make out the face from the distance and the way the person is moving is very far removed from anything Harry would expect from Malfoy. The man has his hands in his pockets and he’s taking long, steady strides, his body relaxed and his shoulders swaying with the movement. Malfoy never moved like that. But then again, Malfoy was always royally pissed whenever Harry was around, so all Harry’s seen him do is charge or swagger. 

Harry finds himself enjoying the calm nonchalant shifts of the body in black. He’s recently realised that each and every person moves a little bit differently and he thinks it is this - the way a body moves - that attracts him rather than the shape of the body itself. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that he himself moves with the grace of a newborn Bicorn. He swipes his gaze back up the approaching figure - black suede loafers, simple black trousers which hang low on his hips and a black cotton shirt with white buttons, the long sleeves rolled up once to reveal the white lining underneath. When Harry’s eyes fall on the man’s face, he feels a sudden rush of blood, a hot shiver travelling from his chest down to the tips of his fingers and toes.

It _is_ Malfoy. The sight of him makes Harry remember how good he felt that night at Luna’s and how much he needs it back. He has to make it work. He cannot screw this up. It feels like he’s being given his final chance and he has to make it work. He’s going to make it work. He remembers the mock-fighting, Malfoy with the blanket on his shoulders, the teasing as they sat next to each other on the floor, the wandless magic, Malfoy’s fingers fluttering against his palm, the _seems like a decent plan if you ask me_. He feels himself smiling. He’s feeling happier already. He tries to surpress the smile as Malfoy stops in front of him, his brow furrowed, his expression guarded. His forehead is creased with wrinkles and his eyes are even bluer in the golden light of the early spring evening. 

It’s a lost cause. Harry’s cheeks are hurting. 

‘What?’ Malfoy snaps in place of greeting.

‘Nothing,’ Harry shrugs innocently.

Malfoy’s upper lip curls.

‘What’s with the grin? Are you in a manic phase?’

_He made everything seem less… serious, less threatening. As if my problems weren’t that big a deal._

Harry feels like he might squeal with joy any moment now. 

‘When have I not been?’ he shrugs again and grins some more.

Malfoy snorts and shakes his head.

‘Come on, this way,’ he says, bypassing Harry and making for the park gate behind Harry’s back.

Harry jogs to catch up with him, still smiling. He turns his head to glance at Malfoy, who’s staring determinedly ahead as he leads Harry out of the park and into a narrow street.

‘Where are we going?’ Harry asks.

‘A whisky bar.’

‘A whisky bar?’

‘Yes, well done, Potter, glad to know your hearing’s all good.’

Harry’s cheeks are burning, but he can’t seem to be able to bring his lips under control. 

They have only been walking for maybe a minute when Malfoy slows and gestures to a white and blue entrance to the left.

‘Over here.’

He opens the door and enters and Harry follows him in, looking around. They are in a place which seems to be serving mostly as a shop - hundreds of bottles cover the entire mirrored wall on the left, floor to ceiling, an array of yellow and golden brown twinkling in the few streams of sunlight getting in through the windowed shop front - but there are some small tables here and there and a few high stools at the counter at the back. A couple of people are sitting down, turning crystal tumblers in their hands, talking and sipping, their hands gesturing as they guide the conversation.

Malfoy strides forward, nodding at the man standing behind the counter, who nods back. Harry does the same as they pass him and enter a darker narrow corridor to the right. Harry leans around Malfoy to see where it will lead them and sees the corridor is a dead end, the wall on the left lined with wooden cupboards filled with bottles of alcohol and the wall to the right as well as the one in front of them both covered with overflowing bookshelves. But as they move forward, Malfoy doesn’t slow down but instead pushes the bookshelf in front of him and it turns out to be a secret passage.

Pushing the door closed behind him and walking onto a small yard, Harry experiences a strange first-time-to-Diagon-Alley flashback and feels a tinge of anxiety at the thought of being led to a wizarding place by Malfoy while not wearing a Glamour. He doesn’t have time to properly think about it, though, because Malfoy is currently disappearing into a spiral metal staircase which apparently leads to the basement level.

Harry runs down the few steps and bends his head, hovering over Malfoy’s shoulder.

‘This doesn’t look like a Muggle place,’ he whispers frantically.

‘Indeed,’ Malfoy drawls in a quiet tone, ‘the rascals are stealing our aesthetics.’

Harry frowns, puzzled, but follows. He reckons Malfoy isn’t any more interested in spending the evening being gaped at and, potentially, explaining himself. He did seem to understand the need for Glamours if they were to go to a wizarding place when they owled, so Harry does his best to supress his urge to swoop in and save the day. At least for now. Worst case scenario - he’ll _Disapparate_ them both out of there. 

They enter a dim-lit space and as Harry takes it in, he has to admit it looks just like an underground Muggle bar would. Most of the walls are red brick, the lower sections covered with dark wooden pannels that rise from behind big brown and black leather sofas. To the left, there is a large bar, also with wood pannelling and wooden shelves with a wider choice of types of drinks than in the whisky shop. In the centre of the room, a few pillars support the low grey-painted ceiling. The room is filled with simple dark wooden tables, brown leather stools scaterred around them. The light is pale and yellow, coming mainly from the lamps that hang over the bar. On each table there is an empty whisky bottle with a thin candle wedged into the bottle neck and also a few empty crystal tumblers, upturned and stacked on one another. The place smells of wood and alcohol and, strangely, brings to Harry’s mind the smell of the drawing room in Grimmauld Place. Indie rock is swirling in the air, coming from somewhere above their heads, but at a reasonable volume.

They pass only two or three groups of people as Malfoy leads them deeper into a darker and more secluded section. The ceiling here is even lower and it arches over their heads, joining the two dark walls. Malfoy stops when there is no further to go, at a table standing in the space created by a U-shaped black leather sofa. 

Harry has to admit he’s liking the _aesthetics_.

Malfoy spreads his hands in an ushering gesture and Harry wriggles onto the sofa, taking the seat which allows him to see out into the main room. Malfoy doesn’t sit down, just looks at Harry with a smirk.

‘Am I right to assume your heroship approves?’

Harry scoffs and rolls his eyes, smiling.

‘Your heroship does. Are you going to sit down?’

‘I’ll get us drinks. What’s your poison tonight?’

Harry shrugs.

‘Whisky on the rocks?’

Malfoy folds his arms across his chest.

‘It’s a whisky bar, Potter, you’re going to have to be more specific than that.’

‘Erm…’ Harry doesn’t usually care that much about what he’s drinking as long as it has the desired effect of putting his mind off things. He honestly doesn’t know much about kinds of alcohols. ‘Surprise me. Have you got Muggle money?’ He reaches for his back pocket to take out some cash.

Malfoy just stares at him for a moment like Harry’s an utter nuisance, then heaves a sigh.

‘I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to anything except yourself, Potter, but if you did, you might be aware of the fact that I’m not exactly rolling in money these days. And the Galleon to pound exchange rate has recently been quite favourable. So. First round’s on me.’ Malfoy turns around. ‘You just sit here and light the candle,’ he calls over his shoulder.

Harry kicks himself internally for forgetting about the post-war reparation procedures. Of course Malfoy is no longer well off. No wonder he’s frequenting Muggle bars - they’re much more economical than wizarding ones if you earn in Galleons. 

Harry glances at the bottle-candle-holder, checks for Muggles and moves his hand over the candle, making the flame shoot out and then subside to a flicker. He raises his eyes to see Malfoy’s retreating back, his head turned back towards Harry and his intense gaze on the candle. His head swivels again, making his hair fly.

Harry grins. 

When Malfoy returns, he slides Harry’s drink across the table and takes a seat to his right, sipping from his own. Malfoy’s drink looks fancy in its Martini glass, the liquid at the bottom in a dark shade of red and gradually changing colour to pale yellow at the top. Harry’s drink is served in a tumbler, it’s light yellow and slightly opaque, with an orange slice floating on the surface. Harry brings it closer to himself. 

‘What did you get me?’ Harry asks.

Malfoy sips from his glass with an exceptionally smug look on his face before answering.

‘The Suffering Bastard.’

Harry raises his eyebrows.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Don’t look at me like that, Potter, that’s what the drink is called,’ Malfoy snaps, but he’s still smirking.

Harry looks at Malfoy for a while in silence and the wider he smiles, the more Malfoy’s eyes dart to the sides.

‘All right,’ Harry says finally and nods his head slowly. ‘All right, fair enough. What’s in it?’

‘Bourbon, gin and ginger ale.’

Harry takes a large gulp and as he swallows, the drink tickles his throat and makes heat spread down his chest and stomach. The taste left in his mouth is a strange combination - bitter, sweet, tangy.

‘It’s good,’ Harry says. ‘I like it.’ He gestures towards Malfoy’s drink. ‘What’s yours called?’

Malfoy brings his glass up, holding it by the thin stem and swirling the liquid inside, making the colours mix.

‘Blood and Sand.’ 

‘Huh,’ Harry says.

He spins his tumbler, then clasps his palms around it. He wonders if Malfoy’s choice of drinks is an invitation to a talk on a deeper level.

‘Is that a bruise?’ Malfoy’s eyes are on Harry’s right hand. ‘Can’t do magic with your left hand, Potter?’

Apparently, no - not an invitation to a talk on a deeper level. Harry regroups internally. 

‘Oh, this.’ He turns the glass around, glancing at the bruise. ‘It’s from your owl, actually, the blasted animal attacked me.’

‘Judging from how long it took for her to fly back, you either made her wait on the window sill or trapped her inside for an hour mulling over your response. In either case, Tony’s reaction was perfectly justified,’ Malfoy says. 

‘Tony? You named your female owl _Tony_?’

Malfoy narrows his eyes and it looks serious.

‘Have you got a problem with that?’ he asks sharply.

‘Nope,’ Harry spreads his palms in a defensive gesture. ‘No problem at all, honestly.’

Malfoy turns his head and gazes into the main room, his face cold.

Harry tries very hard not to groan. He is doing his best not to fuck this up, he really is, but he never seems to know when something is going to set Malfoy off. He suspects it must all make some kind of sense, but he just can’t see the common factor. What is the trigger? Oh, how he would like to skip to the part where they mock-fight and do impersonations. Do Time Turners work forwards? Hell, Harry would settle for backwards.

Harry decides to go for the one foolproof method that seemed to be the key to Malfoy’s good spirits that night at Luna’s.

He clears his throat and Malfoy’s eyes fall on him. 

‘Stupid Potter…?’ Harry inquires softly. 

He thinks he can see the slightest twinge on Malfoy’s lips, but maybe he’s imagining it. Malfoy is watching him and he seems deep in thought.

Harry smiles and shrugs.

‘Or is this joke getting old?’

One half of Malfoy’s mouth stretches in a smile. 

‘It’s neither a joke nor is it ever getting old,’ he says, his tone lazy, and brings his glass to his lips again.

Harry follows the movement and watches Malfoy’s thin pale upper lip stretch over the rim of the glass and dip into the now dark orange liquid. 

‘Doesn’t explain why you haven’t healed it.’

Harry’s eyes snap up. Malfoy’s not even drinking anymore.

‘Huh?’

Malfoy points to Harry’s hand.

‘The bruise,’ he says pointedly. ‘Why haven’t you healed it?’

Harry brings his hand higher and flexes his fingers, looking at the oval mark. It takes him a moment to verbalise his thoughts. He doesn’t want to come across as _an overbearing wanker_ , but he would also like to let Malfoy know… how much all of this means to him.

‘I was happy you owled,’ he says at his hand. ‘It… reminds me.’

‘Oh, Salazar,’ Malfoy breathes out, falling against the seat and throwing his head back. ‘Whatever has the world come to?’

Harry chuckles.

‘It’s weird, right? You… me… Weird.’

Malfoy nods at the ceiling in an exaggerated way.

‘Exactly! And you’re the only person who agrees with me on this! Everyone else seems to think there’s nothing weird about that.’

Malfoy tilts his head.

‘Well, it’s weird, in a way.’ He gazes at the ceiling for a moment. ‘But then again, it’s also not.’

Harry frowns. He hopes he understands what Malfoy is trying to say - because, to Harry, it really is _so_ weird, but also it feels _so_ right. But oh, what wouldn’t he give to know what Malfoy’s view on this is.

_Give people space._

Yes, he was supposed to be working on that, wasn’t he?

He decides to drop the subject and sips from his glass.

‘It’s an abbreviation, actually,’ Malfoy picks up suddenly.

‘What is?’

‘Tony. It’s an abbreviation. From _‘l’autonomie_.’ Malfoy says the last word in what Harry thinks must be the perfect French accent, although, to be fair, he really wouldn’t know. It just sounds terribly good rolling off Malfoy’s tongue. ‘I got her a while ago when I was in France. I went into a pet shop to ask about the nearest international owl post service and someone was looking at owls and her name was mentioned and she was called _Autonomie_ and I just had to buy her.’ Malfoy raises his glass and hides his mouth behind it. ‘Pathetic,’ he mutters and takes a big gulp, closing his eyes and tilting his head back.

Suddenly Harry feels the dots connect and the clarity is almost painful. Autonomy. Of course. That’s what’s a priority for Malfoy right now. And, honestly, no wonder. How did Harry not figure it out sooner? It makes perfect sense. Malfoy had his choices made for him for so long. He was dragged into situations where he had no say, put into circumstances beyond his control. No wonder he flipped when Harry tried to hijack his job situation. At that moment, Harry must have reminded him of all the people who demanded that he give up control over his life to them. 

Harry demanded that, too.

He suddenly feels uncomfortably hot and notices the glass slips in his hands because of how sweaty his palms are.

 _Notice the signs, Mister Potter,_ Healer Averill’s voice rings in his head.

He closes his eyes, wrapping his fingers around the glass, which starts trembling and clanking against the tabletop. He starts counting in his head to keep his breathing from getting out of control while there’s still time. He cannot screw this up, not like this. Malfoy has just opened up to him and this is how he reacts? Honestly. He should be happy. He is happy. 

Harry would, too, sign his name on an everyone-should-be-able-to-make-informed-decisions-about-their-own-lives poster, for fuck’s sake. That’s what he still holds against Dumbledore, after all. The fact that someone so dear to him could have deprived him of vital information and taken away his control over his life for so long, even if it was _necessary_ \- truly, _fuck necessary_ \- is something he still can’t reconcile with. 

Is this what makes this - whatever _this_ thing with Malfoy is - work? The fact that they’re both only now learning to gain control over their own lives?

He feels the gentlest flutter of magic on his right hand and his eyes fly open to see Malfoy’s hand softly hovering over his. When he raises his head, Malfoy’s eyes are calmly searching his and then his hand wraps around Harry’s, prying it away from the glass, and squeezes firmly. The pressure seems to soak up all of his anxiety and he feels all the tension leave his body.

Malfoy bends down over the table and towards Harry.

‘If you send all the glass in this place shattering,’ he hisses in a whisper, ‘not only will we be gravely injured, we’ll also have to both heal and _Obliviate_ everyone in here and then put the place back in order, which I’m not sure even _your_ Gringotts vault could sustain.’

Harry snorts and starts chuckling, looking at Malfoy, who’s retracting both his head and his hand and giving Harry a mock-serious pointed look.

Harry inhales and exhales deeply a few times and revels in the feeling of awe over how easy it is for Malfoy to just lift the weight of everything off his shoulders with one well-aimed jab. 

He feels like smiling again. So he does. It's just a small smile, one that probably doesn't even show up on his face.

He wonders if Hermione would be proud of him. He is experiencing so many emotions in such a short time span, it’s making his head hurt. At this point in his life, he definitely has the emotional range of at least a decent-sized plate. 

He empties his glass and decides to try his best to put things back on track.

Without being an overbearing wanker, still.

He turns his eyes at Malfoy.

‘Do you want to tell me more about your trip to France?’ he asks and quickly adds, ‘If you don’t want to, that’s fine, too.’

Malfoy twists the stem of his empty glass between his fingers.

‘I am going to need a refill in order to do that.’

Harry nods, scooting over to the other side of the sofa and then standing up.

‘Can I get a bottle of something? It’ll last us longer.’

Malfoy nods.

‘Erm… I don’t know what. What should I get?’

Malfoy’s mouth stretches in a wide smile and it is feral. Harry shivers.

‘Jim Beam Devil’s Cut and a bucket of ice.’

Harry just stares for a moment, caught up in the smile that seems to have swallowed Malfoy’s entire face, including his grey-blue eyes and his wrinkled forehead.

‘Jim Beam Devil’s Cut and a bucket of ice,’ he repeats numbly, then shakes himself mentally and turns. ‘Right. Jim Beam Devil’s Cut and a bucket of ice,’ he mutters to himself on the way.

The main room is a bit more crowded and louder now, most of the stools around the bar are occupied and Harry has to move to the side to find space to lean against it. He recites his order to the bartender, pays nearly 35 pounds and leaves with a bucket of ice, a bottle of dark brown liquid and a complimentary bottle of Coke plus a bowlful of various spices, each in a separate transparent foil wrap, which he initially thinks he’s received by mistake. He sets everything on the table in front of Malfoy, who has already moved the candle out of the way, set out two of the empty tumblers and is now dipping his long thin fingers into the spice bowl, rummaging through the packets and making appreciative noises.

‘It didn’t go with an instructions manual, the bowl,’ Harry says. ‘So… it’s all yours.’

Malfoy smiles wickedly, pulling out a long packet which Harry recognises as vanilla pods.

‘Don’t you worry your little head about that,’ Malfoy drawls. ‘Make yourself useful and put up some charms so the crowd doesn’t storm in here.’ He motions towards the main room.

Harry half-turns, looking around to see if no one’s watching and waves his hand a few times, putting up a Muggle Repelling Charm and a series of Notice-Me-Not and Silencing Charms for good measure. The music and the sounds from the main room die down. With the corner of his eye, he sees Malfoy’s head is not bowed over the ingredients on the table, but tiled up towards him and, predictably, as he turns back and wriggles around the table and onto his seat, the drinks are nowhere nearer to being ready and Malfoy is looking all preoccupied, unwrapping the vanilla.

Harry sits back and watches him with a smile. After a moment, a tumbler full of ice and golden brown liquid is pushed towards him, a single long vanilla pod protruding from it. Malfoy picks up his own glass and raises it towards Harry, waiting.

Harry brings his tumbler clinking against Malfoy’s and, in the heat of the moment, proclaims cheerfully, ‘To Tony.’

Malfoy scowls and rolls his eyes, but stirs his drink with the vanilla pod gently and then takes a big gulp.

This one is sweeter than Harry’s first drink and he’s quite sure he can actually taste the vanilla on his tongue as he swallows the cold liquid, which ignites another fire in his guts. He notices that his head has started buzzing a little already.

Malfoy makes a humming sound of appreciation as he sets down his drink. He looks at his glass for a moment, turning it in his hands.

‘We went to France with Mother after Father… died. I still had to do regular probation check-ins, so it was only for two weeks and I had to get permission to leave the country and have a constant Tracking Spell put on me. Anyway, we used to go every year when I was small, we have some distant relatives there who let us stay with them. Now, with the reparation procedures, the Manor taken over, we didn’t really have enough money to travel, so it was only thanks to them taking us in that we could afford that. I thought…’ Malfoy stills the glass in his hands and sighs. ‘I think we both had good memories of going there, Mother and I, and I thought it would take her mind off things, help her… I don’t know, deal with everything. But it didn’t. It only made the difference between the distant past and the present more vividly painful. We went to the wizarding district and I could see her eyes lingering on the places where we had been before, with him, when he was still… strong. A bastard, but at least… healthy.’ Malfoy winces and takes a gulp. ‘In a sense.’

Harry is looking at Malfoy intently, quite amazed at the turn of events and what he’s getting to know. Was backing off just a tiny bit enough to bring this on?

 _Kudos to you, Healer Averill,_ Harry thinks. He would kiss her feet at the next session if it wasn’t highly inappropriate.

Then again, he might do it anyway.

Malfoy’s eyes are either focused on his glass or darting around the walls, but Harry keeps his gaze on him in case of an initiation of eye contact.

Who would have thought they would ever be talking like this? It feels like Harry is hearing Malfoy’s voice for the first time, _really_ hearing it - calm and quiet, sombre and introspective. It sounds amazing. And he feels privileged. He feels this is somehow… real. So very, very real. Raw. Intense. Intimate.

Amazing.

‘She hasn’t been… at peace… for years. First Father was called and I think every time he went away, she thought she was seeing him for the last time. Then I was, and she suddenly had all this power inside her, trying to protect me, but it took a lot out of her. Then _he_ moved in and she… I think she just gave up hope that we were going to survive this.’ Malfoy finally looks at Harry, his eyes tired. ‘And then you swooped in.’

Harry smiles softly.

‘If anyone _swooped in_ , it was her. I owe her my life. Most of the world probably does without even realising it,’ he says.

Malfoy stares at the wall in front of him, then nods.

‘Yes. She is remarkable,’ he says, strangely distant. ‘But she hasn’t been well. When the new regulations kicked in three months after the trials and they deemed Father _unfit_ to serve his sentence in Azkaban, they had nowhere to put him, so they brought him back to the Manor, where we still lived, though it was no longer officially ours. And this was probably an even worse place for him to be than a damp cell. Mother tried to help him, but three months later he was dead.’ Malfoy’s gaze is vacant, his tone hollow. ‘I’m sure she believes she failed at piecing him back together. And as soon as he died, we got the final eviction notice. I managed to find a job, a place to stay, but she…’ Malfoy trails off, stares into his glass for a while, then tilts it and gulps down the remainer of his drink.

Harry is lost for words. He did know parts of this story before, having testified in the trials and with the sentences and reparation procedures getting front-page press coverage. He knew Lucius Malfoy’s sentence was changed from imprisonment to strict house arrest when the Humane Treatment Act was introduced - a highly controversial move on the part of the rebuilding Ministry, as most of the people it concerned were Death Eaters. Both the Ministry and the opponents of the act approached Harry back then to convince him to endorse their respective agendas, but he was in no state to take sides and make public appearances, so he refused - or rather, ignored - both. He still isn’t sure where he stands on this. On the one hand, he feels like the basic premise of not causing people to suffer is a right one, but on the other, he just can’t find in himself any compassion for people who walked into a school to kill children. He most definitely can’t find it in himself to feel sorry for Malfoy’s father. His mother and him, on the other hand… 

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry blurts out.

Malfoy shoots him a surprised, almost amused look and snorts.

‘What are _you_ sorry for?’

‘Well, I’m sorry you lost your home…’

Malfoy cuts him off with another snort, reaching for the bottle to refill his drink.

‘It hadn’t felt like home for a very long time before the Ministry claimed it, believe me. Getting out of there and into my own place was one of the best things that have happened to me recently.’

‘Oh.’

Harry remembers some of his visions and sees how this could be the case.

‘Does your mother live with you?’ he asks gently.

‘No.’

Malfoy takes a big gulp of his drink and sets it on the tabletop a bit too forcefully.

Harry would really like to know more, to find out if there is any way he could help both of them, but the sound startles him into silence.

‘Drink up, you’re falling behind,’ Malfoy suddenly says, gesturing towards Harry’s drink.

Harry finishes it and Malfoy instantly refills his tumbler, this time sprinkling a little brown powder into it and stirring it with a cinnamon stick before passing it on.

‘Anyway,’ Harry picks up hesitantly, ‘I’m alive thanks to the both of you, in part, so if there is anything I can…’

‘Fuck, Potter,’ Malfoy interrupts him again, sounding more exhausted than angry. ‘If this is how we’re supposed to go about this, then I should start following you right this instant looking for two more ways to save your life.’

Harry frowns, confused.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Honestly,’ Malfoy rolls his eyes. ‘Adding two to one should be within even your limited thinking capabilities.’

Harry stares at him, feeling completely lost.

‘Oh, go on,’ Malfoy falls back against the sofa. ‘Rub it in my face, why don’t you.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Harry says earnestly.

Malfoy closes his eyes and heaves a deep sigh.

‘You’ve really done enough, Potter. You saved my life three times,’ he says weakly.

Harry searches his mind. Three…? He can only remember that one time in the fire, what else is Malfoy talking about?

‘I remember the Room of Requirement, but…’

‘During the battle… the Death Eater… Weasley punched me…’ Malfoy says quietly, his head tilted back, his eyes still closed.

‘Ooh.’ Harry suddenly remembers. ‘I completely forgot about that. So much was happening. It wasn’t even… I just saw him and reacted on reflex.’

Malfoy snorts at the ceiling.

‘Of course you did.’

Harry smiles a little, but he still doesn’t know how Malfoy arrived at the number three.

‘All right, let’s say that’s two. What’s the third one?’

Malfoy opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling for a long while. Then his forearms fall back onto the table and he slumps, reaching for his drink and taking a swig. Harry watches him spin his tumbler a few times, his eyes firmly on it. Finally, Malfoy stretches his back, sighs deeply and gazes at the wall opposite him.

‘The bathroom,’ he breathes out.

It takes Harry’s brain two or three seconds to link the word to the memory and then he winces and starts shaking his head fervently, feeling his heartbeat speed up, his brain starting to jam. He doesn’t understand. That’s the other way around. That’s when Harry hurt him. The water on the floor, the blood in the water… Has he apologised for it yet? He remembers thinking about it. He should apologise again.

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…’ he whines.

Malfoy’s eyes turn to Harry, dangerously narrow now. His upper lip curls.

‘For fuck’s sake, Potter, are you even listening to me?’ he hisses. ‘Get out of your fucking head, you arsehole. Maybe if you do, there’ll be space for someone else in there.’

And there it is again. One jab. Spot on.

Harry collects himself, closing his eyes for a moment.

‘All right. Okay,’ he says, looking back up. ‘I don’t understand.’ He points at himself. ‘Stupid Potter, remember…? Please tell me what you mean. Just… tell me. I know you don’t like to…’ - _talk about yourself? Expose yourself?_ \- ‘I know it’s hard. But please, just…’

Malfoy holds his gaze for what seems like ages, his eyes so very grey and so not at all blue, his forehead crinkled, his whole face frozen in what seems to Harry to be… fear?

Malfoy drops his head, staring at the drink in his hands.

‘Let’s just say…’ he says very slowly, enunciating every word, ‘it’s not as easy as one might think… to off oneself in the Hospital Wing of Hogwarts when recovering from deep wounds to the chest…’

Harry just stares at him numbly. 

_What?_

Malfoy wanted to… Harry stopped him from… By almost killing him, Harry stopped him from…

‘Jesus, fuck, Malfoy,’ is all Harry manages to verbalise.

Malfoy turns his head away, looking out into the main room. Harry follows his gaze and sees the room is now full of people, the crowd there standing, dancing in place, raising their drinks, laughing. From where they are, behind a layer of Privacy and Silencing Charms, it looks a bit like a scene from a silent film.

Harry looks back at Malfoy. His face is still turned, partly obscured by his hair, his fingers wrapped around his glass, stiff, his whole body tense, and then Harry notices the slightest tremble in his shoulders.

‘Malfoy.’ Harry bends over the table to see his face, but Malfoy turns his whole upper body further away, his fingers readjusting their firm hold on the tumbler. ‘Malfoy, hey…’ Harry doesn’t really know what to say, so he reaches out and wraps his hand around Malfoy’s left forearm, forcing himself not to squeeze, but just signal support, and when his fingers slide against the black fabric, Malfoy’s shoulders heave and he utters a stifled sob. Harry sees him raise his right hand and rub his face, then push through his hair, tugging at strands, fingers curling.

And suddenly all Harry can think of is grabbing Malfoy and hugging the shit out of him.

 _Giving someone the space they need can give you affirmation, from yourself, because you’ve accomplished something which does not come naturally to you and from them, because you gave them what_ they _needed, not what_ you _thought would be best for them._

He reins himself in. The turned head probably means grabbing and hugging would backfire spectacularly. Malfoy’s letting him squeeze his arm, however, so Harry decides to focus on that. He keeps a tight hold on the thin arm and tries to channel through it all the support and comfort he can manage. He feels his own arm tingle, magic flowing down to his fingers, making them flex and suddenly he can hear Malfoy’s surprised intake of breath. 

Harry closes his eyes, his fingers warm and itchy, pulsing with magic. It’s all in the past. It’s done, finished. They can move on now. They’re free. They don’t have to live for anyone else. They’re in charge of their own lives. The worst is already behind them. Now it’s only going to get better. It’s going to get better. They’ll work it out. It’ll take time, but they will. They will be happy.

‘Oh, Merlin,’ he hears Malfoy sigh hoarsely and the arm moves slightly under his fingers.

He opens his eyes and sees Malfoy slumped back against the sofa, his head tilted back, exposing his throat, his hair dishevelled, strikingly blond against the black leather of the upholstering. His eyes are closed and his lips are parted. His face is slightly wet and glistening in the light from the candle. His chest moves up and down as he breathes in and out loudly, raggedly, _panting_. 

Harry is enthralled. Magic surges inside him in hot waves.

And then Malfoy makes a sound which Harry can only categorise as a _moan_ and he feels a hot shiver travel down his spine at the sound. He thinks he can hear himself give out a whining sound, but he can’t be sure because he really doesn’t know what exactly is happening. He just knows that he can’t decide whether he would rather lick the tears off Malfoy’s face, push his tongue in Malfoy’s open mouth or bite into his taut throat. All three in succession, preferably.

Harry looks away and tries to clear his head. This is not the right direction to go right now. Malfoy is so damn good at pulling Harry out of his own head. This is the time for Harry to return the favour.

He keeps his right hand wrapped around Malfoy’s forearm and raises his left, setting his elbow on the tabletop, He gives a little wave. The air around them moves, blowing Malfoy’s hair over his face and the letters N, O, Y, T materialise and float over the table, light blue and shimmering.

Malfoy brings his head down, shaking the hair out of his eyes, his eyelids fluttering open. His eyes are wide and a little glazed and wild-looking. He gazes at the letters for a moment and then Harry can see his gaze soften.

‘What is this, Potter?’ he asks and Harry could swear his tone is tinged with amusement.

Harry grins.

‘Just showing you I can do magic with my left hand,’ he replies flippantly.

He waves again and the letters move and rearrange into Malfoy’s owl’s name.

‘Wandless,’ Malfoy says under his breath, staring at the letters.

Harry nods and gives Malfoy’s arm a little squeeze.

‘How are your own skills developing, Malfoy? Care to demonstrate?’

Malfoy looks at him and smiles wickedly.

‘Oh, I’ve been practising,’ he says, moving his forearm away from Harry’s grasp and lifting his chin up. ‘Focusing primarily on my wrist work.’

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up and his mind suddenly provides him with the image of Malfoy _focusing on his wrist work_ in an entirely different context. He only gets the chance to gulp, however, when suddenly he sees Malfoy’s right hand move through the air and the next thing he knows, he’s hit with a Tickling Hex that sends him into a giggling fit.

‘Stop, Malfoy,’ Harry gasps, squirming on the sofa. ‘Stop, stop! I believe you! I believe you, just stop!’

‘Oh, no,’ Malfoy replies with a smile and waves his hand again. ‘Tormenting you is way too much fun.’

Harry clutches his sides, bending over the table, laughing. His stomach muscles are starting to burn. He does the only thing he can think of - he raises his own hand and sends a Tickling Hex right back at Malfoy.

Malfoy yelps and bursts into laughter and the spell on Harry seems to ease up for a moment, but then it’s back with a vengeance as Malfoy waves his hand. 

It takes them a few more rounds to end up shrieking and in pain and to declare a draw.

Malfoy is smiling broadly as he freshens up their drinks and Harry is feeling very proud of himself indeed.

***

Two drinks later, Harry’s head is swimming and his whole body feels warm and tingly. He raises his head to look up at Malfoy, who has just jumped onto the sofa, nearly hitting his head on the low ceiling and is now swaying dangerously, barely keeping his balance as his feet sink into the seat.

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Malfoy calls, slurring the words. ‘It is with great pr-… pleasure… that I can announce today the publici… publication of my latest masterpiece! It is like nothing you have ever seen before!’ Malfoy flips his hair back over his shoulder in an exaggerated gesture. ‘For only three Galleons you can have the unquet-… unquestionable privilege of learning about one of the most historic moments in the… history of the world!’ Malfoy bends down towards Harry, wobbling and brings his hand to his mouth to stage-whisper. ‘For only three more Galleons, get a copy signed with my name by my assistant.’ Harry throws his head back and laughs. ‘But beware!’ Malfoy picks up, flinging his arms in the air. ‘Once you pick it up, you won’t be able to put it down! _The Daily Prophet_ will call it riveting! _The Quibbler_ will deem it obnoxious! All _I’m _gonna say is…’ Malfoy pauses dramatically, gazing into the distance, then sighs with a resigned expression. ‘Actually, it’s just the result of me wanking in front of the mirror.’__

Harry bursts out laughing again and bangs his tumbler on the table, spilling a bit of his drink.

‘Sold!’ he yells. ‘What’s it called?’

Malfoy moves his hand in front of him as if he can see the title in his mind’s eye.

‘ _How I Sucked 12-year-old Harry Potter’s Cock to Get on the Front Page._ ’

Harry chokes on his drink and coughs, cringing.

‘Ew, Malfoy!’ he says with feeling. ‘Ew, ew, ew! That’s fucking disgusting!’

Malfoy giggles as if he completely lost it and falls to lie on his back on the sofa.

Harry scoots towards him and bends down, his face hovering over Malfoy’s.

‘Dis-gus-ting,’ he reiterates, but he can’t help smiling. 

Malfoy is looking up at him with a tired, relaxed expression, a lazy smirk stretching his lips. Harry squints, trying to focus his eyes on them. They’re pale and thin and wet with alcohol and saliva. Harry’s head feels heavy and he can feel his body wanting to bend further down. He closes his eyes and the whirlwind in his head intensifies. He tries to imagine what it would be like to feel Malfoy’s lips against his own, but then he suddenly feels nauseous and he forces his eyes to open and focus. 

Malfoy’s smirk is gone and he’s staring at Harry, his eyes bleary or pensieve, Harry can’t really tell. He lets his own gaze travel across Malfoy’s face, taking it in. His skin is pale with the exception of his cheeks, which are flushed pink and make Harry want to swipe the back of his hand against them to check the temperature. Harry is delighted to see those blue specs in the grey irises up close again. The only part of Malfoy’s face that is off is his forehead. Harry thinks it looks as if it was taken out from someone else’s face and pasted on. It is crisscrossed with deep horizontal lines, interconnected with shallower ones, jagged and running in all directions. Harry focuses on Malfoy’s hairline and the bright blond strands, slightly tangled as they spread on the sofa seat, in stark contrast to the blackness of the leather. His hair looks so soft.

On impulse, Harry raises his hand and brings it down to card the tips of his fingers through Malfoy’s hair. 

Malfoy jerks and pulls away, sitting up.

‘Let’s call it a night and head back,’ he says quietly.

And all Harry can think of is _back to mine?_

‘Yes, Potter,’ Malfoy snaps. ‘ _You_ back to _yours_ and _me_ back to _mine_.’

Harry squeezes his eyes shut.

Oh, God. He said it out loud. Of course he did. He’s drunk. He shouldn’t have drunk so much. Now he’s fucked it up again. Of course he did. What did he expect?

‘Stupid Potter,’ Harry mumbles and this time, it’s mostly to himself.

For a while there is silence and Harry opens his eyes again to see Malfoy looking at him tiredly.

‘I have to get up early tomorrow,’ Malfoy says.

‘Tomorrow’s Saturday.’

‘Correct, Potter, I have to get up early on Saturday.’

‘Why?’

‘Work.’

‘Oh. You have to work on Saturdays?’

Malfoy sighs.

‘It’s called having a job, imagine that.’

Harry tries very hard to push through the haze in his mind. Maybe if he can understand what’s happening, he’ll be able to save the situation somehow. Is this to do with _autonomy_ again somehow?

‘So… is that the reason why… why you don’t want to…’

‘No.’

‘Then… wha-…’

‘It’s dangerous,’ Malfoy cuts him off, though his tone seems rather gentle to Harry’s ears.

Harry stares at him for a moment, waiting for explanation.

‘What is?’ he asks finally.

Malfoy is looking at the opposite wall again, his eyelids half-closed.

‘You are,’ he says quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I did take some liberties in this chapter. I am aware that speakeasies weren’t a thing back in 1999, but I just couldn’t help it when I found London’s oldest [whisky bar](https://www.google.pl/?gfe_rd=cr&ei=P75UV8ebA8Ov8we9tZ24Aw#q=milroy+of+soho) next to [Soho Square](https://www.google.pl/search?q=soho+square&biw=1366&bih=667&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwitjseKjZLNAhWFFZoKHTvZAaYQ_AUIBygC) and [the Vault](http://www.thevaultsoho.co.uk/), which you access [via a bookcase](http://hyhoi.com/2015/05/the-vault-milroys-of-soho-bar/). I’m also not sure if Jim Beam Devil’s Cut existed back then. The [drinks](http://hiconsumption.com/2014/02/essential-cocktail-recipes-30-best-whiskey-drinks/) are real, though.
> 
> Someone’s been awaiting a Draco comeback, I think…? Well, here he is. :)


	6. Chapter 6

_Self-development is a higher duty than self-sacrifice.  
\- Elizabeth Cady Stanton_

‘So, we’re having another DAWN integration picnic tomorrow,’ Hermione says off-handedly as she passes Harry another mug of coffee and sits across from him at the kitchen table, wrapping her hands around her own cup.

Harry groans internally, already feeling the impending doom.

‘The usual thing, ten or so children, their Muggle guardians, a few people from the Ministry, Olivia of course, and me and Ron…’

He remembers the few events he organised himself right after setting up the foundation, wind of change under his wings, mind full of hope that this would be the thing that would turn his life around and let him find purpose. The first gathering finished before it had even started, closed down by a team of irritable Aurors who were on duty that Sunday and were called in after the Ministry got wind of the massive amount of magic being done for no apparent reason on a completely random meadow outside of London. Harry tried to explain - the main purpose of the meetings was, after all, to let the children maintain their interaction with magic and let their Muggle guardians get familiar and comfortable with it. All the Aurors saw, however, was unauthorised use of magic in front of dozens of Muggles in the middle of nowhere. Harry was lucky enough to flash his scar and persuade them that bringing a team of Obliviators to the scene was unnecessary, but the whole experience certainly didn’t instigate in the Muggle participants the trust in magic that Harry was hoping to help them develop. Then again, if it hadn’t been for that fuck-up and his wand being temporarily confiscated for investigation, he probably wouldn’t have had the need to practise wandless magic. A skill which, these days, seems to make certain individuals all hot and bothered…

‘Harry…?’ Hermione’s soft voice breaks into his train of thought.

‘Huh?’

‘You with me?’

‘Yeah, yeah, sorry,’ Harry shakes his head in order to clear it and takes a sip of his coffee. ‘You registered it with the Ministry? Got the Muggle Magical Exposure Permit?’ 

‘Olivia did,’ Hermione nods. ‘She’s learned so much these past few months, she’s indispensable. I can’t imagine doing it without her now.’

Harry sighs, staring at the brown liquid in his mug. Maybe if he had been able to accept help when he started things off, he wouldn’t have flung himself into workaholism and the resulting meltdowns. 

Able to accept help… Huh. He apparently has problems with that himself. How hypocritical of him to get angry at certain individuals who seem to be going through the same thing.

‘Malfoy?’

‘Huh?’ Harry’s head snaps up so fast that his neck hurts.

Hermione is looking at him with a small smile on her lips.

‘You’re replaying yesterday evening in your head again?’

Harry sags in his chair.

‘No, not yesterday evening in particular.’ He brings his hand up and lifts his glasses to rub his eyes. ‘But yeah, it seems like my mind can’t come up with a train of thought that would not lead to him in the end.’ He blinks a few times, trying to focus back on Hermione, who’s sipping her coffee and looking at him attentively. ‘It’s tiring, really. These obsessive thoughts, like a whirlwind…’

Hermione hums and tilts her head.

‘What do you think you need right now?’ she asks after a moment. ‘To give it all your attention, focus on it completely, work it out? See Healer Averill? Or to get some perspective? Let some time pass? Distract yourself in the meantime?’

Harry scowls.

‘Well, I’m quite sure that if I did go to a session, I’d get to know I should let some time pass and get some perspective… _Give people space_ ,’ he enunciates viciously.

Hermione’s smile widens.

‘Distraction it is,’ she announces, her tone cheerful. 

‘Oh, I am so dreading your next sentence…’ Harry mutters.

‘Come to the picnic with us.’

‘Ha, and here it is. The dreaded end.’ He throws his arm over his face in mock distress.

‘Harry,’ Hermione reaches for his hand and squeezes his fingers, her eyes soft. ‘I’m not going to insist that you go. If you don’t feel up to it, that’s completely fine. I’m just saying… maybe it would take your mind off things. I’ll be there, Ron’ll be there, and Olivia’ll be there. You don’t have to interact much with anyone else, half of those people won’t even know who you are, they’re new to the foundation, the Muggle guardians for sure will think you’re just another guest invited to do magic in front of the kids, and I remember you really liked being with children…’

Harry removes his arm and straightens in his seat. 

‘I did,’ he nods. ‘I did, that’s true.’

He remembers the few successful outings he organised, the way it felt to be surrounded by the unrestrained joy, to produce a _Patronus_ and be suddenly flooded with cheerful shrieks, the children crowding around him, pointing fingers and asking if it’s okay to touch the ghost deer. Even if they had heard his name before, most of them were too young to understand who he was and what he’d done. Neither they, nor their Muggle guardians congratulated him on being a murderer, thanked him for bringing death upon countless people. There was no one there to remind him of how guilty he was. No one to assume he was proud of his accomplishments. No one to call him ‘a hero’.

_Am I right to assume your heroship approves?_

‘Harry…?’

He raises his head and registers Hermione’s inquisitive look.

‘Yeah, Malfoy again,’ he confirms, without her even needing to ask.

Hermione huffs and shakes her head in an exaggerated way, bushy hair waving furiously.

‘Stupid Malfoy,’ she quips, her tone light.

Harry chuckles, feeling a strange kind of warmth spread inside his chest.

‘Yeah, stupid Malfoy.’

***

They _Apparate_ a short walk away from the main picnic venue and as they approach, Harry is feeling both immensely excited and utterly terrified. 

He turns his head left towards Hermione, who’s walking by his side.

‘A decent-sized plate,’ he states.

Hermione smiles with a bewildered expression.

‘A decent-sized plate…?’

‘My emotional range right now,’ Harry clarifies.

Hermione throws her head back and laughs. She sends him a warm smile and wraps her arm around his waist, squeezing him once and then matching his pace.

The day is sunny and warm, but not sweltering. Harry inhales and his nose is filled with the unmistakable smell of summer - wild flowers and sunshine. The air is filled with the chirping of grasshoppers, which escape from their path as they walk. A soft wind makes Hermione’s hair fly in Harry’s face.

They walk uphill and as they get closer, Harry sees big wooden tables with benches set out in the shade of a huge old oak tree. The tables are overflowing with food, spilling out of baskets and piled on the tablecloths. A small crowd of people are sitting at the tables and on big colourful blankets spread out on the grass all around. Muggle summer clothes prevail, though Harry thinks he can see two blurs of black, which probably means Ministry officials who give priority to their participation in the event rather than to the weather conditions. The people gathered around the tables seem to be mingling and talking, but their conversations are drowned out by the noise being made by a group of children gathered to the right. There’s shouting and squealing and laughing, lots of small bodies moving, running, jumping. Some of the adults seem to be watching the goings-on there, but all remain on their side of the meadow. As they get closer, Harry recognises Ron as the person in the middle of the commotion - he’s waving his wand, conjuring colourful sparks and sending them flying over the children’s heads. One of the children, a thin brown-haired girl, maybe 6 or 7 years old, jumps up, going for Ron’s wand, but he raises it, keeping it out of her reach and bending down a little to say something to her.

Harry disentangles himself from Hermione and points towards Ron.

‘I’m gonna…’

‘Yeah, go, go!’ Hermione squeezes his shoulder and gives him a small push in Ron’s direction, swerving to the left and towards the group of adults herself.

When Ron raises his head again, he looks around and spots Harry walking towards them. Harry raises his hand and waves and Ron’s face lights up in a brilliant smile.

‘Everyone!’ he raises his voice. ‘Everyone, this is my friend Harry, he’s going to join us.’

All the children turn towards Harry as he comes to a stop next to the group. He thinks he recognises a few of the faces, vaguely remembering them from a few months ago. The thin girl suddenly appears at his side, her head tilted back to look up at him.

‘Are you magical, too?’ he asks excitedly.

Harry chuckles.

‘Yes, I can do magic, too.’

‘Where’s your wand?’ asks a slightly older boy that Harry has seen before.

‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure,’ Harry opens his arms in a helpless gesture, shrugging.

Ron comes closer to embrace him with one arm.

‘See, my friend Harry here is sooo magical that he doesn’t even need a wand to do magic. He’s the most magical person ever!’

Harry scoffs.

‘Show! Show!’

‘Do magic!’

‘Show us!’

Ron steps away and to an accompaniment of shouting and shrieking, Harry raises his hand and thinks of blankets with tassels and pillow fights and Soho Square and whisky drinks in martini glasses and blond strands of hair against black leather.

‘ _Expecto Patronum!_ '

A ray of silver smoke shoots out into the air and falls towards the ground, taking the shape of a proud tall stag.

The children gasp and shout, someone hides behind Harry’s back, pulling at the hem of his t-shirt, someone else jumps forward, hands extend, fingers point, someone is chanting _Espeto Patrona_ over and over again to no avail, Ron is giving Harry another bright smile and Harry is lightheaded with how good it all feels. 

Half an hour or so of magic later, Olivia calls them to the tables for snacks and replenishing fluids. As they walk towards the oak tree, Harry can feel sweat dribbling down his back and small fingers squeezing his right hand.

‘Luke,’ Olivia bends down to say to the boy clinging to Harry’s right side, ‘why don’t you give Harry his hand back for now and go tell your aunt about all the fun magic you’ve done together?’

The boy’s big blue eyes travel up to Harry’s, wide and puppy-like. His cheeks are flushed and his fringe is sweaty and sticking to his forehead.

Harry squeezes the small hand.

‘It’s okay, I’ll still be here,’ he assures.

‘Mmm… okay,’ Luke says, letting go of Harry’s hand, and runs forward.

Olivia smiles at Harry as she walks by his side.

‘I’m so glad you came,’ she says quietly.

‘I’m so glad I came, too,’ Harry smiles back.

He hasn’t really had the chance to get to know her very well, as it was Hermione’s idea to take someone new on after Harry passed DAWN to her and she saw how much work it was. Olivia worked from home, always available to the children’s Muggle families as their first ‘magical’ contact. Her duties boiled down to the things that Harry actually liked most about the job - helping the children’s guardians to deal with the small one’s wild magic, helping them understand the behavioural issues that were rooted in their magical abilities and scheduling trips to Diagon Alley to make sure the families got regular exposure to the wizarding world. Olivia now seems to have a very good grasp on these things, leaving to Hermione only the financial and legal parts. Harry can see how she is the right person for the job. She is supportive, but not interfering. Empathic, but not overbearing. Her smile is warm and tentative and it makes her round face even softer. She’s in her early twenties and she once said that she remembers Harry from his first year at Hogwarts. Apparently, all the sixth- and seventh-years scoffed at how suddenly in 1991 the entire school started swinging around the axis of this eleven-year-old. Saying this, Olivia gave him one of those soft smiles and Harry’s very grateful to her for this being the only comment she has ever made about his status in the magical community. 

He looks at her now, a white and green summer dress swirling around her knees as she walks, worn-out white trainers on her feet, her golden blond hair tied in a ponytail almost at the top of her head. She’s smiling as her eyes roam around the crowd next to the tables, as if looking for an opportunity to jump to someone’s aid.

‘Thank you,’ Harry says and Olivia’s head turns towards him, her eyebrows raised. ‘Thank you for… well, everything you do here. The time, the effort…’

‘What can I say, it’s the best job in the world,’ Olivia smiles, shrugging. ‘So… thank _you_ for creating this.’ 

‘Everyone,’ Hermione pushes through the crowd towards them as they stop in the shade of the tree. ‘Some of you may not have met Harry here yet. He’s another of our entertainers for today.’ She clasps her hands around Harry’s arm. ‘I understand there has been some heavy excitement over the last hour, so we’ll need to allow both our youngest guests and our entertainers to rest a little. So please, help yourself to the food and the drinks, everyone!’

As Olivia moves to sit at one of the tables, Harry can feel Hermione’s fingers flexing around his bicep and her hair tickling his neck as she leans in to whisper in his ear.

‘You okay?’

Harry smiles and nods.

The noise resumes, now increased in volume by the children. Little Luke is standing next to a woman who’s trying to wiggle him out of his sweat-soaked shirt and into a fresh one, but his eyes are on Harry as he points and says, ‘He can make a smoke deer without a wand, auntie!’ and the woman ‘oooh’s in an exagerrated way. Hermione latches on to the educational opportunity and lets go of Harry’s arm to move towards them and get into a lecture on the inner workings of wands and wandless magic. 

Harry focuses on locating the nearest jug of pumpkin juice and tries to avoid direct eye contact with any of the adults. As he moves around a table, he thinks he can hear someone whisper ‘Is that the boy…?’ from somewhere behind him and he squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment, though it predictably does nothing to subdue the hushed conversations around him, which, he now imagines, focus on one topic only. He feels the drops of sweat dribble down his back again, clearer now against the much chillier wind that whirls in soft gusts under the oak tree. He pours some pumpkin juice into a white styrofoam cup and grabs a bread roll, all the while counting in his head. Nothing terrible is happening yet, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. He walks away from the tables and towards the oak tree, trying to create a safe distance between himself and the group.

Inhale through the nose – one, two, three, four, five, six – exhale through the mouth – one, two, three, four, five, six. Inhale through the nose – one, two, three...

‘Mister Potter.’

Harry jumps and swirls around, sending pumpkin juice spilling over his hand.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.’

Harry tries to even out his breathing and looks at the man in front of him, somewhat consoled by the fact that there is at least one person here who is certainly sweating more profusely than Harry is. Honestly, a black cloak on a summer day like this. With an official silver Ministry clasp, no less.

‘My name is Finley Dunn, I’m with the Muggle Relations department.’ 

The man takes a step forward and Harry automatically draws back. His vision gets blurry and he blinks, trying to make out the features of the man’s face.

‘I’d just like to use this opportunity to thank you for everything you’ve done…’

The man’s voice is drowned out by the pounding in Harry’s ears. He can feel his heart thudding, his blood rushing, his palms sticky with sweat and pumpkin juice. He can’t hear what the man is saying anymore, but he’s sure he’s here to congratulate Harry on the splendid job he did as a murderer. Because that’s all he’s good at and that’s all he’s going to be remembered by. Nothing more.

He knew this would happen. He knew. He should have been ready for it. And yet, he can’t bring himself under control and stop the panic attack he knows he’s having. He feels like he can’t draw in a proper breath. Counting isn’t going to cut it anymore. He searches his mind for other techniques, but it’s like his mind has gone blank and he can’t remember anything he has ever talked to Healer Averill about. Not one session, not one conversation, not one thing Healer Averill has said.

 _I’m not sure what to think of your wandless magic skills anymore, Potter,_ his mind suddenly supplies in a lazy drawl, _apparently you can’t even cast a simple Cleaning Spell, but I like the taste of pumpkin juice, so why don’t you just let me take care of your sticky fingers?_

Harry lets out a shaky breath that almost becomes a chuckle. Where the fuck did that come from?

Suddenly the pounding in his ears subsides and his eyes are working much better and he sees Ron rather unceremoniously usher the Ministry official away and back towards the crowd. Then Ron’s arms are on his shoulders.

‘Mate, you with me?’

Harry nods numbly, still processing the familiar voice in his head. Has he gone completely mad now? Or was that actually a good thing? It sounded good. It felt good.

Ron takes the roll and the cup out of Harry’s hands one by one and vanishes them quickly, then casts a Cleaning Spell and pushes Harry around the big oak tree so that they’re hidden from sight.

Ron’s bright blue eyes appear in front of Harry’s face, level with his own and searching carefully for a sign that Harry is going to do something everyone will regret.

‘Harry, talk to me. What do you need?’

The first thing that comes to Harry’s mind is ‘Malfoy’, but he quickly recognises how completely and utterly insane and impossible that is in this context.

‘Home,’ he says instead.

‘Okay,’ Ron replies, taking Harry’s hand.

Suddenly, Harry’s heart starts beating faster again as he remembers.

‘But I promised Luke that I’d be there…’

‘’Mione will explain it to him, don’t worry.’

‘But everyone there, all the people…’

Ron squeezes his hand firmly.

‘Leave it to ‘Mione and Olivia, Harry, they can handle it. Let us help. Okay?’

Harry feels like crying over how he can’t stop coming up with new ways to fail everyone around him.

‘Also, they’re going to tear this Ministry bloke a new one as soon as this thing’s over,’ Ron mutters under his breath and Harry almost smiles. ‘Ready?’

Harry nods again and after one more squeeze to his hand, Ron _Apparates_ them both and before Harry knows it, he’s sitting on his own sofa, limp and wrapped in Ron’s strong embrace and the tears start falling.

‘I’m right here, Harry, if you need anything, just say the word,’ Ron whispers into his hair.

Malfoy.

The fucking word is _Malfoy_.

He needs someone to tell him to get out of his own head, he needs someone to kick his arse, he needs someone to have a Tickling Spells match with.

For a moment, he feels ungrateful towards Ron, who is always there for him, ready to lend a shoulder to lean on, ready to help him shower, for fuck’s sake, to be one of the constants in Harry’s life however terribly Harry screws up and however much he draws away. He really appreciates having a best friend like this, he really does. He knows Ron would do everything to help out. Everything…

Harry’s mind conjures up a crazy fantasy in which he tells Ron to go get Malfoy, which Ron does without a question, locating him God knows how. Malfoy comes striding into the room, dressed all in black, blonde fringe over his eyes, hands in his pockets and takes one good look at Harry’s sobbing form spread across the sofa.

_Lo and behold, here lies the champion of wallowing in self pity! Well, Potter, aren’t you even going to invite a guest to sit down? What are you waiting for, scoot over! Just… don’t make me sit in the snot-wet spot._

Harry half-sobs, half-chuckles at his thoughts and he can feel Ron squirming to try to see his face.

‘Harry…?’

‘I’ll be okay,’ Harry smiles weakly and sniffles. He wipes his nose with the hem of his t-shirt.

_Well, that’s just gross, Potter. I’m tempted to say, even more disgusting than the image of Lockhart sucking your 12-year-old cock._

Harry actually laughs out loud at that, feeling his body relax and pulling away from Ron a little.

Ron’s brow is furrowed, his lips crooked as he watches Harry suspiciously.

‘I’m okay, I’m okay,’ Harry breathes out, patting Ron’s thigh. ‘Thanks, Ron. Thanks for being here for me.’ 

‘Don’t mention it…?’ Ron replies slowly, still looking confused, but with a small smile.

‘Can you get me some water?’

‘Sure. Back in a jiffy.’

Ron stands up and leaves the room and Harry leans back on the sofa, letting his arms relax at his sides and inhaling deeply. 

Okay. So now he apparently has Malfoy in his head. On a certain level, it’s not even that surprising. Considering how much Harry’s thoughts have been revolving around him lately. Then again, it just doesn’t seem entirely healthy, does it? 

Also, having the real thing around him would be preferable. 

But the real thing has a tendency to be confusing and difficult and in need of a hell of a lot of _space_ and _autonomy_.

Harry takes another deep breath and hears Ron approaching.

He is going to be sensible about this. Yes, he is. He is not going to go invading other people’s space. He’s going to be respectful of it. He’s going to handle his own freak outs on his own. Like a grown-up. He’s going to schedule an extra session with Healer Averill and work it out. 

It will also have the additional perk of getting to know if the voice in his head means he’s finally totally lost it.

***

Healer Averill’s hands are folded in her lap, her fingers long and dark, her nails lighter and manicured, partly hidden between the creases of her plaid skirt. The Self-Writing Quill has just come to a halt above the paper pad and is now pointing its tip at its owner expectantly.

‘I’d say it’s a very interesting new coping mechanism you’ve developed there, Mister Potter,’ she says.

‘Interesting as in _interesting_ or interesting as in _there’s a room waiting for you at the Janus Thickey Ward_?’

Healer Averill smiles and scoffs softly.

‘If you remember, during our previous meeting we discussed why your interaction with Mister Malfoy at the party felt like a healing experience. We talked about how this happened because you allowed it to happen, because you projected this healing power onto him.’ Harry nods and Healer Averill makes a short pause before continuing. ‘Whose is the voice you heard, Mister Potter?’ 

Harry can sense this is a trick question, but he can’t think of an alternative answer.

‘I told you, it was Malfoy’s voice.’

‘Did it say something Mister Malfoy had said before?’

‘Well… no. I mean… I’m sometimes reminded of something he said, but that’s different. Those are just memories, I don’t _hear_ them. The voice… I, erm… I _heard_ it. Inside my head, I really heard it. It was saying… things I hadn’t heard before. Things I needed to hear. Things I…’ _I like the taste of pumpkin juice, so why don’t you just let me take care of your sticky fingers?_ ‘…wanted to hear.’

The Healer nods.

‘All right. So, who came up with all those things that you needed and wanted to hear?’

Harry looks at Healer Averill numbly.

‘ _Whose_ is the voice in _your_ head?’

The emphases make Harry’s mind go _click_ and apparently, the sudden epiphany is showing on his face, because Healer Averill smiles.

‘The voice in your head is _your_ voice, Mister Potter.’

‘You mean… I am telling myself what I need to hear, but I’m using _him_ to do it? Why?’

‘You tell me.’

Harry groans and falls against the back of the sofa, grabbing one of the brown cushions and putting it in his lap. He tilts his head and looks up at the pale blue ceiling. 

Okay, so, apparently, he’s using Malfoy as a tool for getting better. But why him? Why wasn’t it Ron’s or Hermione’s voice? Maybe because Hermione would never use an expression such as _to suck a 12-year-old cock_. While Ron would probably never go for _lo and behold_. Neither of them would tell Harry that he’s _wallowing in self-pity_. And, as it turns out, these were all exactly the kinds of things he needed to hear. The kinds of things that pull him out of his own head, that give him perspective. The kinds of things Malfoy would say. Malfoyish things. The kinds of things Harry likes to hear. The kinds of things he would like to hear more often. The kinds of things that make him feel happy and healthy. 

‘I think…’ Harry starts, gathering his thoughts and in awe of what’s coming out of his mouth. ‘I think it’s because… I believe he could make me happy.’

He drops his head and sees Healer Averill’s wide smile.

‘And I think it’s time for us to talk about ways of forming mature romantic relationships. Would you agree, Mister Potter?’

***

On Tuesday, Harry wakes up and lies in bed for a long time, reliving the emergency session of the day before. It stretched into almost three hours in the end, one of the most mentally intense three hours in Harry’s life. And that’s saying something. 

He keeps replaying parts of the conversation with Healer Averill again and again, obsessively, as if afraid that he’s going to forget, that it will all slip away. He doesn’t want it to. It feels too important. Finally, he _Accios_ his glasses, a piece of paper and a pen and turns to lie on his stomach, throwing his pillow aside and flattening the paper on the mattress before starting to write.

1\. No guilt trips - everyone made their own decisions in the war. Own your shit and let other people own theirs.

2\. Communicate - if someone’s making you feel uncomfortable, tell them (to fuck off). (to do: find out if H. & O. tore the Ministry bloke a new one.) 

3\. Schedule kid time (to do: contact Andromeda)

4\. Mature relationships: space, time, communication (don’t assume, ask questions), autonomy, appreciation (to do: M.) (OK, that was childish.)

Harry laughs at himself, but still manages to feel a bit better. Now that he's got a plan, albeit a very shaky one, he can begin to carry it out. 


	7. Chapter 7

_The soul is healed by being with children.  
\- Fyodor Dostoyevsky_

As Harry drops onto the seat in front of his desk, the piece of paper with the list he made in the morning rustles, folded and slipped into the back pocket of his trousers. He takes a deep breath.

It comes to his mind that a few sips of something stronger could prove helpful at this point. He frowns at his own thoughts.

He pulls out the list from his back pocket and unfolds it flat on the desktop.

_1\. No guilt trips - everyone made their own decisions in the war. Own your shit and let other people own theirs._

_2\. Communicate - if someone’s making you feel uncomfortable, tell them (to fuck off). (to do: find out if H. & O. tore the Ministry bloke a new one.)_

_3\. Schedule kid time (to do: contact Andromeda)_

_4\. Mature relationships: space, time, communication (don’t assume, ask questions), autonomy, appreciation (to do: M.) (OK, that was childish.)_

He grabs a pen.

_5\. No alcohol._

He remembers the whisky bar and sighs heavily. Would he have whatever he has with Malfoy if it wasn’t for the inhibition-lowering properties of booze? Would there have been a Voldemort impersonation at all if it hadn’t been for the drinks at Luna’s? Would there have been a candid talk on the floor? Would there have been a _seems like a decent plan if you ask me_?

But then again, the pillow fight came after the sobering charm. The _spooning_ came after the sobering charm. The pleasant part of the breakfast came after the hangover potion.

He looks back at the list and decides to leave the last point as is. He picks up the piece of paper to fold it back up, but then stops and leaves it open on the desk. 

First, he writes a letter to Andromeda. He focuses on making it brief and to the point. The reasons for his absence from Teddy’s life fall into the ‘his shit to be owned’ category, so he decides the right thing to do is not to burden her with them. He apologises for not being in touch and asks if he can take her up on her offer of coming over to visit.

Next, he writes Hermione and Ron, saying that he really enjoyed spending time with the kids, thanking them for their support and asking them for a detailed description of the new gaping hole they tore the Ministry bloke.

Then he writes Olivia, explaining - without going into too much detail - his sudden disappearance from the picnic, asking how it went and whether little guy Luke was very disappointed to find him gone, breaking his promise. He asks for Luke’s aunt’s contact information to be able to write them a letter.

He picks up a fresh piece of parchment and stares at it, the pen hovering over it. He would really like to see Malfoy again, but that still means writing Luna to ask her to pass a message to him. What would he write? This time, he realises, it’s not only about the gut-clenching, unrestrained joy Malfoy seems to be able to bring out in him. He needs to know the current status of the whole _bathroom_ situation. He feels a shiver travel down his spine. He needs to know what Malfoy meant when he said Harry was _dangerous_. There are so many things he needs to know. Asking questions was on the list, wasn’t it? As something that is condusive of _forming mature relationships _? He glances at his list.__

 _Space_ is on the list, too. And also what Malfoy apparently needed when Harry started hovering over him, carding his fingers through the blond strands in a druken haze. If he wanted Harry to be able to contact him, he’d have said something more about this new place he moved into ( _without Narcissa_ , Harry’s mind supplies). He knows Harry has no way of directly contacting him and he doesn’t seem ready to change it. 

Harry heaves a deep sigh, puts down the pen and picks up the list.

_4\. Mature relationships: space, time…_

‘Learn not to be an overbearing wanker,’ he mutters to himself.

He sighs, folds the list and puts it back in his pocket.

***

The house is quiet and peaceful in the late afternoon light. The green shutters are open and in one of the windows, a thin white curtain has been blown outside and flutters gently, moving with the soft gusts of wind. Thick rose bushes make the front garden look like a wild thorny jungle, the plants climbing each other and weaving their branches together. The flowers are in full bloom, red, pink and white, each head a tight bundle of dozens of soft petals. The air is so heavy with their sweet scent, Harry feels almost nauseous as he stands in front of the gate.

You would never think that two people live in this house instead of five. 

Harry takes a deep breath and reaches into his back pocket to check if the list is still there. Over the past day and a half, the paper has lost some of its rustling quality and it feels much softer under his fingers. He makes sure it’s stuffed safely deep into the pocket.

He enters the garden, walks up the path among the rose bushes, breathing shallowly and knocks at the door as soon as it’s within reach. He straightens his t-shirt, scoffs at himself, shifts from foot to foot and looks back towards the street, rakes a hand through his hair and hears the door creak open.

Andromeda’s light brown hair is tied low and flows down over her left shoulder. She’s wearing blue jeans and a baggy brown blouse and she’s drying her hands on a striped kitchen towel. Her skin is pale and wrinkled, but healthy-looking and her big eyes seem to be sparkling as her face breaks out in a wide smile.

She looks nothing like Bellatrix Lestrange.

‘Harry,’ she says cheerfully as she steps back to let him in. ‘Please excuse the attire. Robes and long skirts prove to be an utter nightmare with a little one who’s exploring the possibility of moving around on his own.’

As he steps in, Harry realises that this is going to be much easier than he thought.

‘He’s walking?’

Andromeda closes the door behind him and as he turns to face her, he sees her still smiling, her eyes taking him in.

‘Not quite yet, but he’s an expert at crawling and and he’s starting to stand up and use the furniture for support,’ she says and starts wiping her dry hands on the towel again. ‘But he’s getting there, so we only have a little time left before complete havoc is unleashed.’

Harry smiles a little and for a moment, they just stand in the corridor, looking at each other and Harry thinks he can see his own feelings of both happiness and awkwardness mirrored in her. He feels a sudden urge to explain himself, his absence from Teddy’s life, his lack of support for her after she lost so much, but then he remembers the list in his pocket and takes a calming breath.

‘Thank you for inviting me over,’ he says quietly.

‘Oh, Harry…’ 

He only registers the movement of the towel as her arms spread to the sides and before he knows what’s happening, he’s being held in a strong embrace, his nose buried into her hair, which smells of something fresh and exotic. After a few seconds of the initial shock, he relaxes into the hug and gently circles his arms around her waist. She rubs his back and pulls away.

‘Come on in, I’ve made muffins.’

She leads him along the corridor and into the sitting room and Harry recognizes the surroundings from his few previous visits. Everything looks very much the same, everything’s in order, everything’s so clean. How does she manage it all alone with a small child? He should definitely offer to help. It’s not a compulsive-saviour-complex thing to do, he reckons. It’s the _right_ thing to do.

As they walk into the room, Harry’s eyes fall on the aspidistra by the door and he stops mid-step. It’s much taller and he thinks it has been repotted, but for a moment, the memory of it keeling over and falling to the ground flashes before his eyes and he feels his chest tighten. His ribs still burn from the regrowing. They’ve escaped. They’ve crashed. Hagrid is alive. Hedwig is dead. 

_It’s a fucking plant, Potter,_ the voice in his head says in a bored tone. _Stop projecting your trauma onto it. What has it ever done to you to deserve it?_

‘Harry…?’

His head snaps up at the sound and he sees Andromeda standing by the coffee table next to the sofa, the kitchen towel hanging loosely in her hand, her eyes apprehensive. His gaze travels to the side and falls to the floor, where amid cushions and toys, Teddy is sitting quietly. He’s grown a lot since Harry last saw him, his legs are strewn to the sides, his hands are clutching a stuffed unicorn, his mouth is agape and his big dark eyes are staring up at Harry in utter fascination. 

Suddenly, the rest of the world shatters and falls away and there was never a reason to panic.

Harry takes a few wobbly steps in the boy’s direction and drops to one knee.

‘Hi, Teddy, remember me…? I’m-I’m Harry…’ his voice is low and soft, filled with wonder.

He reaches out and his hand bumps against some kind of an invisible barrier.

‘Oh, sorry,’ Andromeda comes up to the them. ‘I put a protective bubble around him whenever I leave him by himself.’ She draws her wand. ‘ _Parvulus Bulla Reducto_.’

There’s a soft popping sound and Teddy looks up at her and giggles excitedly, as if in response.

‘There you go, boys,’ Andromeda says, walking towards the door. ‘You say hello and I’ll bring the tea and the muffins.’

‘Thank you,’ Harry turns his head to call after her.

‘Aaay!’ Teddy’s piercing squeal makes Harry wince and look back at the boy.

‘Well, hello to you, too,’ Harry says, smiling.

He kneels properly and shuffles forwards.

Teddy tilts his head, still gazing at Harry in wonder, his small hands wringing the white and purple unicorn. Harry points to it.

‘What have you got there?’

Teddy brings the unicorn to his mouth and starts chewing at the soft purple horn, his eyes never leaving Harry’s face.

‘Now, erm… I’m not sure… unicorns like it when you do that…’ Harry starts, reaching this hand towards the toy.

‘Youuu!’ Teddy yells, clutching the unicorn to his chest protectively.

Harry draws back, his eyebrows raised.

‘Me…?’

‘Mmeee! Mma! Mmm… Aa!’ Teddy starts babbling excitedly and rocking forward, one hand still holding the toy, the other raising into the air. ‘Eeee… Mageeee!’

Harry sighs.

Perhaps this won’t be as easy after all.

He hears footsteps approaching and the sounds of cups and spoons clanking against a tray.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to need some assistance in translation,’ he throws over his shoulder over Teddy’s babbling and gurgling.

Andromeda chuckles from behind Harry’s back and he twists to be able to look at her.

‘Oh, you’ll get the hang of it.’ She sets out the teapot, the cups and a small plate of muffins, then sends the tray flying back to the kitchen with a wave of her wand, sits down on the sofa and starts pouring herself tea. ‘Just stay away from his unicorn and you’ll be safe.’

Harry looks back to Teddy, who has the unicorn horn back in his mouth. The entire white muzzle glistens in the lamplight, covered in saliva.

‘Just _Scourgify_ the poor thing from time to time in those short moments when it’s not in the beast’s mouth,’ Andromeda adds in a flippant tone.

Harry chuckles.

He takes in Teddy’s light brown locks, his round face, his big dark eyes. He was afraid he would see Remus, he was afraid he would see Tonks, but he realises he doesn’t. He was afraid he would see an orphan. He was afraid he would see himself. 

But he doesn’t. Here is a brand new human being in his own right, untainted by painful history, blissfully unaware of his circumstances. Or rather - blissfully happy with the circumstances he knows. The fluffy burgundy carpet he’s sitting on, the cream cushions he’s propped against, the Snitch-patterned blanket lying to the side, the colourful books and toys strewn around him, the texture of the plush in his mouth, the warmth of the room, the care of the people around him.

It’s like seeing potential for happiness incarnated.

The thought seems to be taking a heavy weight off Harry’s chest, like a first deep breath after Apparition.

Teddy brings the unicorn horn out of his mouth and starts smacking his lips and making gurgling sounds, so Harry raises his hand and leaps at the opportunity.

‘ _Scourgify_.’

From behind him, Harry can hear Andromeda make an impressed sound, but his attention is drawn to Teddy, whose eyes grow impossibly wider in an instant. He starts waving one small arm again.

‘Agee!’ he yells cheerfully.

‘Oh, now you’ve done it,’ Andromeda sighs.

Harry turns his head towards her, his brow furrowed.

‘Ma! Ma! Magee!’ Teddy shouts.

‘What have I done?’

‘Magee!’

Andromeda tilts her head and smiles.

‘Magic.’

‘Magee!’

‘Ooh. _Magic_.’ Harry looks back at Teddy, smiling. ‘Excuse me, I mean, _magee_.’

‘Magee! Lay… Layco,’ Teddy says impatiently, reaching for a soft colourful ball lying next to him.

‘Can he… erm… sense it?’

Andromeda hums in confirmation.

‘It seems he’s quite sensitive right now, yes. We try to surround him by it as much as possible. Usually the sensitivity dulls over time, as a child learns to actually use magic, but some say when the time to learn comes, it’s easier if it already feels very familiar.’

‘Magee!’ Teddy’s tone starts bordering on annoyed and he lifts both the unicorn and the ball into the air, as if showing them to Harry.

‘Told you,’ Andromeda says. ‘There’s no escaping it now. You have to play whether you want to or not.’

‘Okay.’ Harry smiles at Teddy and reaches for the ball tentatively and points at it. ‘May I have this?’

Teddy shelters the unicorn against his chest again, but keeps his ball-bearing hand outstreched, so Harry takes the toy from him and turns it in his hands, twisting to sit cross-legged on the carpet.

‘Hmm… What shall we…’

‘Up!’ Teddy says clearly, lifting his arm.

Harry barks out a surprised laugh.

‘Well, that was exceptionally specific… All right, up it goes.’

He throws the ball in the air and as it starts falling, he stops and levitates it just above Teddy’s head. The boy looks up and laughs cheerfully, clapping his hands against the unicorn toy and raising his feet a little from the floor. He keeps chuckling, long and unrestrained, as only a child can, while the ball simply hangs in the air and for a moment, Harry can’t tear his eyes away from Teddy’s face, all contorted in laughter. The boy reaches out towards the ball, but it’s too high and he starts babbling excitedly again, pointing at it.

Harry flicks his fingers and makes the ball spin in place and as it gains speed, its edges and the colours start to blur.

‘Aaaaaa…’ Teddy says, his mouth falling open, his tongue peeking out over his lower lip. He stares at the ball in complete fascination, then lowers his gaze and shakes his head, as if in confusion.

‘We have a stict no-puking-on-the-carpet-unless-completely-unavoidable rule in this house, gentlemen,’ Andromeda chimes in cheerfully.

‘Sorry,’ Harry says, all the time smiling.

He stops the spinning motion and moves the ball lower to bump it once softly against the top of Teddy’s head.

‘Oomph!’ Teddy exlaims, then tilts his head back, laughing out again.

Harry brings it down and bumps it softly against Teddy’s forehead. The boy giggles and tries to catch the ball, but Harry keeps it out of his reach, then bumps it against Teddy’s little nose, barely brushing it. Teddy bursts into a complete giggling frenzy, dropping the unicorn onto his lap and going for the ball with both hands. He flails them around, finally losing his balance, tilting and falling to his side, rolling onto his back and bringing the unicorn back against his chest, still chuckling a little and peeking towards Harry.

‘I think you’ve just secured his unconditional love for this afternoon,’ Andromeda remarks quietly.

Harry keeps bumping the ball against different parts of Teddy’s body and the boy keeps lifting his head to see where the ball goes and laughing every time as if the game was never going to get old.

As Teddy starts to seem tired, Harry grabs the ball and starts squishing it in his hands, looking at the boy’s flushed face. He thinks he could go like this all day. Well, maybe following it with an evening drink with Malfoy. Is it possible that things are finally falling into place? Within a little more than a week, he’s found two things that make him feel happy, and happy in a healthy way, not an I-just-got-blown-on-a-park-bench-by-a-stranger way. Fair enough, he’s had false epiphanies before, for example with DAWN, but this time it seems… different somehow. More solid. More thought-out. Is it the therapy? Is it the list? Is it Malfoy? Yes, a drink with Malfoy is definitely on the list.

Ah, no. Point 5 of the lists says: not a drink. A… meeting. A meeting with Malfoy. Mock-fighting, impersonations and spilling guts onto the floor in front of each other. And maybe… just… _maybe_ some other stuff, too? It’s on the list, after all. The other stuff. Stuff he probably shouldn’t think about now, with a child in the room.

Stuff it would be inappropriate to think about as a child is crawling towards him.

‘Bo… Bobo,’ Teddy murmurs, his voice tired.

Harry shakes himself out of his reverie and looks at Teddy crawling clumsily across the small area of floor between them, the unicorn gripped firmly in one small hand and squashed into the floor with every next move. He reaches one hand towards the boy, but Teddy evades it and goes for the ball, which Harry’s still holding in his lap. Harry lets go of it and Teddy takes it, stopping in front of Harry and apparently trying to move into a sitting position, looking a little annoyed at how hard it is with both of his hands occupied by squishy toys and his legs being all tricky.

Harry thinks his heart is going to melt into a puddle right then and there.

‘Teddy,’ he says quietly and the boy stills and looks up at him. Harry beckons with both of his hands. ‘Come here.’

Teddy stays still for a moment as if pondering the issue and next his hands dig into Harry’s left calf and right thigh rather painfully despite the plush buffers. Harry bends down to hook his hands under Teddy’s arms and hoist him up out of the half-lying position and into his lap. Teddy wiggles around and ends up with his legs bent in front of him and his head in the crook of Harry’s elbow. He brings his arms to his chest, tucking the unicorn and the ball under his chin and yawns wide.

Full of awe, Harry looks at the boy’s eyes, heavy-lidded now, his peaceful face, his slightly parted mouth. He concentrates on not moving a single muscle out of fear of breaking the moment. At this moment, he thinks, there is nothing in the world that rivals an armful of Teddy. The small body is warm and trustful and growing steadily more relaxed and heavier.

Teddy smacks his lips, cuddling the unicorn closer, rests his head against Harry’s chest and gazes up at him. Harry smiles down, his insides flooding with warmth and peace and happiness and for a moment, he thinks he’s going to cry at how aboslutely fucking perfect this feels. Teddy’s eyelids fall shut and then slowly open again and he looks at Harry, his eyes glazed and almost unseeing. They fall closed again and then Harry suddenly notices that the locks that got rumpled and tousled in the giggling fits and the floor-rolling are quickly growing darker and after one, two, three, four seconds, Teddy’s hair is inky black and for a moment, Harry stops breathing and his mind blanks.

Teddy smacks his lips one more time, the pressure of his cheek against Harry’s chest becomes stronger and then the world falls completely silent.

Harry’s breath starts up again with a sudden jolt, he feels his chest constrict, a lump forming in his throat and next his eyes start stinging and he feels the tears break and run down his cheeks.

He hears a soft rustle behind him and he sniffles, trying to get a hold of himself. Andromeda scoots down next to him and embraces him gently, propping her chin on his shoulder. The fresh smell of her hair reaches his nostrils again. She squeezes him, tilts her head to look at him and he sends her an apologetic smile. In reply, she just squeezes him once more and plants a firm kiss on his wet cheek.

‘I’m really glad you came over,’ she whispers.

Harry shakes his head, trying to even out his breathing.

‘I… I forgot he inherited that,’ he whispers back, his voice cracking.

Andromeda walks around them and picks up the Snitch-patterned blanket, then kneels down in front of Harry to cover Teddy with it.

‘It’s been getting stronger and more deliberate recently,’ she says. ‘Come, help me put him to bed.’

Harry sniffles again, takes a deep breath and despite his legs being slightly shaky, with Andromeda’s help he manages to stand up without waking up Teddy.

After they put him to bed, they return to the sitting room and Harry stops to stand among the toys, stretches his back and sighs heavily. Damn, was that overwhelming. And damn, did it feel bloody good.

‘You want to me to put those away?’ he asks, motioning at the toys and cushions.

‘No, leave it be.’ She pats him on the shoulder. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah,’ Harry says on an exhale. ‘Just, erm…’ He combs a hand through his hair. ‘He made me fall to pieces, the little man.’

Andromeda chuckles and moves towards the sofa.

‘Yes, he seems to have this effect on young men,’ she says distractedly.

Harry tilts his head, frowning.

‘What d’you mean?’

He sees her sit down and squirm a little uneasily, her eyes anxious and roaming the table. She raises her head and pats the sofa seat next to her.

‘Come, the tea’s getting cold.’

Harry moves around the long coffee table and sits, turning towards Andromeda, who has removed the tea cosy and is pouring him a cup. 

Who else his age could be visiting Teddy? He knows Ron sometimes gets in touch with them, but Harry doesn’t think there have been any playdates, rather Floo check-ups. And he assumes he would know of any emotional scenes if these had taken place… Does Teddy have any family Harry doesn’t know about? Maybe Ted’s Muggle family?

Family.

_We try to surround him by it as much as possible._

_We._

The family. 

Oh, fuck.

He can’t believe how daft he can be sometimes.

‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘Both,’ Harry replies automatically, then tries to catch the woman’s eyes. ‘Andromeda…’

‘It’s Andy,’ she turns to him, putting the tea cup in front of him on the table and clasing her hands together in her lap. ‘Please, call me Andy.’

Harry nods once.

‘Andy.’

She takes a deep breath, her eyes darting to the side for a second, then returning to Harry.

‘Now, I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this, but please, bear with me, Harry. It’s very important to me and I think it’s also very important to Teddy,’ she says slowly, her voice trembling slightly. ‘Family is very important to us, it has always been, but even more so now. I know it’s very important for you, too. So I would like to ask for your support and… your calm. For more than half a year now, Draco Malfoy has been a huge help in raising Teddy.’ 

For the second time within maybe fifteen minutes, Harry’s mind blanks. 

When he retrieves some of his ability to think, he realises he’s smiling so hard that his cheeks are hurting and Andy is looking at him with a slightly perplexed, slightly suspicious expression.

He can’t fucking believe how fucking perfect this is. Could they watch Teddy together some time? He’d love that. It’s a dream come true that he didn’t even know he had. Come to think of it, he might not survive that - he might self-combust from the happiness, he imagines. Yes. YES.

Just… he needs to take it easy. _Learn not to be an overbeating wanker_ , right? Since he actually put a priority on that, things have been working out pretty well. This is no time to lose his shit. Gotta keep it together.

He takes a quick shallow breath.

‘That’s brilliant,’ he says, the wide smile still on his lips.

Andy’s eyebrows rise, but then her face softens and she smiles back.

‘I’m… very happy you think so.’

He nods a little too eagerly to make it look completely sane. 

Ah, fuck it. He feels like screaming with joy, nodding and smiling is toning it down anyhow.

‘Great,’ Anddromeda says after a moment of silence. ‘I was wondering… if you’re not busy tomorrow, would you like to come over earlier in the day? I could show you how to do some things around Teddy, teach you a few spells and you could play together again and do some _magee_ …’ She smiles gently.

‘Yes! Absolutely,’ Harry says quickly. ‘I’m never busy. I mean… yes, I can come over tomorrow. Any time you like. Any time that suits you. I’d love to learn and be able to help out. For sure.’

_Obsessive much, Potter…?_

Harry inhales sharply.

Right. That’s his own voice telling him something important, something that he needs to hear.

Right.

Calming down. Calming down in three, two, one…

‘I’d love for you to babysit him from time to time, if you’d feel up for it, of course. Sometimes I’d like to go out for a bit earlier in the day and with Draco having a full-time job and Cissy… well, unable to participate for the time being, I’d really appreciate your help.’

‘I’d love to,’ Harry forces himself to stop there and nod only once.

She pats his knee.

‘Thank you, Harry. I really think you have a great way with children, you’ve done so well today.’

Harry remembers his therapy sessions and he knows that he should be working on gaining internal affirmation, but external affirmation feels exceptionally good, too.

He smiles at Andromeda.

‘Thank you, Andy.’

She smiles back and brings the plate from the table to under his nose.

‘Muffin?’

***

‘Can you imagine I learned to change a nappy today!? Me! Honestly, who would have thought… I mean, okay, it wasn’t the Muggle way, it was with a spell, and… we have patient confidentiality, right? Do not ever quote me on that, but after this experience, I’m starting to see how someone can be of the opinion that the magic way is the superior way… Truly. Wouldn’t have it any other way. And the food, you have to know what’s good for them and what isn’t, and of course they’ll want something that isn’t and you have to be the bad guy and deprive them of that fifth, sixth, seventh biscuit… Jesus, never knew a biscuit could cause so much drama. But he’s brilliant! The way he picks up on the slightest shimmer of magic in his vicinity, he’s like ‘What was that? Was that magic? I want some! Gimme some!’. And the way he laughs… I’ve never heard anyone laugh like that. Just… giggling uncontrollably, for long minutes, do all children do that? How do we lose that? Why don’t we do that after we grow up? We should totally do that. Let’s do that!’

As Harry keeps talking, his hands gesturing, his whole body moving with the words, Healer Averill snatches the Self-Writing Quill by the swirling end, deactivates the spell and makes a note by hand before setting the pad aside.

_The first instance of happy rambling._


	8. Chapter 8

_The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be.  
\- Ralph Waldo Emerson_

‘Yum!’ Teddy announces happily, wringing the stuffed unicorn in his small hands and smacking his lips.

Some of the apple mash dribbles out of his mouth and down his chin. Harry scoops it up with the teaspoon and delivers it back.

‘If it’s so ‘yum’, then why does most of it keep ending up outside your mouth rather than in, eh?’ He smiles, loading up the spoon with a new portion and extending it.

‘You!’ Teddy demands, nudging Harry’s teaspon-bearing hand with the unicorn.

‘No, I’m not eating the baked apple, it’s for you. Open up. Aaa…’

‘You!’ Teddy lifts the unicorn impatiently, hitting Harry’s hand and sending the apple mash flying onto the side of the sofa.

Harry sighs and sends the bowl and the spoon flying back into the kitchen, then uses three various cleaning charms on the sofa, the carpet, the unicorn, Teddy’s clothes and finally his face. As the magic sweeps over him, the boy’s frown immediately disappears and he falls into a giggling fit, almost keeling over to the side, his eyes darting to Harry, suddenly shimmering with specks of green.

Harry doesn’t know where the week has gone. Just a moment ago, he was rambling to Healer Averill about his first visit with Andy and Teddy and suddenly here he is - richer in a dozen household-keeping and child-care spells, knowledgeable when it comes to a one year old’s diet and able to recite the entire _Adventures of Hup the Crup_ from memory.

He feels needed, he feels useful and he’s fairly certain that it’s in the healthy way. He’s helping out, he’s good at it, he enjoys it and he’s being appreciated for it - he can’t remember a time his life made so much sense as it does now. When he felt so hopeful and calm. 

With Teddy occupying his time and his thoughts, it’s been easier to deal with Malfoy’s continuing absence, although, truth be told, Harry _has_ been getting a little restless. He still can’t really wrap his head around what Malfoy said about that time in the bathroom and how he considers Harry _dangerous_. 

Harry would really like to know what that means.

‘How much we are defined by other people,’ he remembers Healer Averill say, ‘partly depends on how much we _let_ ourselves be defined by them. It’s good to want to find out other people’s perspectives on our common reality, it’s good to be inquisitive, to ask questions and be open to the answers we get. But how much those answers should change our own reality is up to us to decide, isn’t it?’

Also, the emphasis was supposed to be placed on _not being an overbearing wanker_ , right? Harry sighs. He’s been walking this line recently, uneasily eager to cross it, he’s ready to admit it to himself. If he wasn’t, he’d have to be in denial about that owl he sent Luna where he fished for information, probably rather unskillfully. At least judging from Luna’s ‘ _Harry. I’m fine, thank you. The Streeler’s colours are in full bloom. Draco’s all right as well. Tony knows where to find you. Love, L._ ’ 

He would also have to be in denial about the evening and morning wanking sessions that have unequivocally replaced his clubbing practices with half-memories - half-fantasies of pressing his arse into a warm groin, biting into a taut throat, running his fingers through soft blond hair and having his wrist trapped in a tight grasp, magic pulsing.

On the up side, his Cleaning Charms have been improving at a never-seen-before rate.

Harry lifts his bum off the floor to check for the list in his back pocket. The paper is soft and smooth now, more like a piece of cotton fabric under his fingertips. He carries it with him everywhere and by now it has become a sort of a safety blanket for when he feels like crossing the line - like when Andy mentioned that there used to be cyclamen plants in the back garden and Harry arrived the next day with cyclamen bulbs and an apology for having crashed into them two years ago only to find out that she meant ‘ _when we inherited the house from Ted’s aunt Beatrice, ages ago, love!_.’

He makes sure the piece of paper is tucked safely into his pocket and resolves to leave well enough alone. Since he made the rules for himself and started learning to follow them, things have been good. This is who he wants to be. Whatever that entails.

Anyway, right now Teddy is a priority. Perhaps he should heat up the baked apple mash and try feeding Teddy some more. Andy won’t be back for another two hours or so. Harry’s mind darts back to the ‘ _there’s someone I need to attend to_ as she was leaving and he just hopes Malfoy is still all right.

‘Ma!’

The soft colorful ball lands in Harry’s lap and Teddy is looking at him expectantly, his eyes travelling between Harry’s face and the toy. 

‘Magee!’ Teddy demands. ‘Ma! Layco!’

‘Okay, we’re going to do magic, Teddy, but I don’t know what ‘layco’ means. This is a ball,’ Harry holds out the toy and repeats the word clearly. ‘A ball.’

‘Layco, magee!’ Teddy insists.

Harry hangs his head.

‘ _You’ll get the hang of it_ , she said,’ he mutters to himself, then raises his eyes at Teddy, smiles and bounces the ball against Teddy’s legs and it lands and rolls across the floor. ‘Well, apparently, I still have a lot to learn in this department, too.’

Teddy smiles back at him, making a happy gurgling sound and right at that moment, there’s a knock on the door.

Teddy’s eyes dart in the direction of the hallway at full attention. 

‘Hmm… Are you expecting any visitors?’ Harry says conversationally as he gets up off the floor. ‘Okay, watch out, child-preserving bubble coming up…’

But before Harry can even wave his hand to do the charm, Teddy looks up at him and reaches his arms up, one small hand holding the unicorn dangling by the purple tail.

‘Up!’ Teddy says.

‘Oh, you’re coming with me, are you?’

‘Up!’ Teddy bounces on the floor, his arms still raised.

‘Well, all right, all right.’

Harry lifts him off the floor and hugs him against his chest, Teddy’s chin on his shoulder, his legs dangling to the sides, the unicorn bouncing against Harry’s arm as they walk towards the front door.

When Harry opens the door, for a short moment he’s overtaken with relief.

_Draco’s all right as well._

And then… well. To say that Draco is _all right_ seems like a bit of an understatement.

Malfoy’s back is turned as he looks out onto the rose garden and the first thing Harry registers are the well-fitted dark grey trousers - _very_ well fitted ones, the effect perhaps emphasised by the fact that Malfoy’s casually stuck his hands into his pockets, pulling the fabric even tighter around his arse. It’s only a second before Malfoy turns toward them, but in this short moment, Harry feels like he’s lost his grip on reality and he gulps, his eyes travelling up Malfoy’s body. He’s wearing a plain white button-down, the cuffs rolled up once, his collar open. His hair is loose and the ends curl slightly where they brush the collar and Malfoy’s shoulders. A few strands fly around his face, moved by the gentle gusts of wind and the late afternoon light makes his hair shine golden. 

Malfoy’s head tilts slightly and his eyebrows raise.

‘Potter?’ 

Harry is suddenly very aware of the armful of Teddy he’s holding, which is now emitting high-pitched sounds and wringing itself around, small hands pushing against Harry’s collarbone for leverage, a unicorn hitting him in the face in the flurry of motion.

‘Layco, ma’aaa!’ Teddy exclaims and his weight starts spilling out of Harry’s hands in Malfoy’s direction.

Malfoy quickly steps up, scoops up the small body in one fluid motion and then Harry’s hands fall to his sides and a blond-haired Teddy is plastered to Malfoy’s front, babbling excitedly.

Malfoy’s eyes close for a second as he presses the side of his face to Teddy’s head and ruffles the blond locks. Harry thinks he can hear Malfoy mutter ‘cuddle bunny’ affectionately under his breath.

Feeling slightly dazed, he tries to remember how long his ‘never thought I'd see Malfoy do that’ list was the last time he added to it. He tries very hard to suppress the grin that threatens to stretch his lips. It might come across as the manic kind.

‘Andy’s out?’ Malfoy asks in a casual tone.

Harry re-focuses his gaze on Malfoy, who’s watching him expectantly with a barely-there smirk. 

Harry nods.

‘Want a little help with the spawn?’ 

Harry nods again and steps away to let them in.

Malfoy smells like a Potions classroom as he passes Harry in the corridor.

Malfoy moves around Andy’s place as if it was his own.

Malfoy’s fingers are long and look exceptionally good as they wrap themselves around the objects he picks up.

Malfoy folds the Snitch-patterned blanket so that Teddy doesn’t tangle his legs in it as he crawls across the floor.

Malfoy’s trousers get even more well-fitted when he bends down.

Malfoy makes sure that the edges of the coffee table are cushion-spelled.

Harry trails him, somewhat disbelievingly, as he goes about setting Teddy on the floor. The boy’s hair has mostly gone back to its own light brown shade by the time Malfoy sits cross-legged opposite. He takes the soft ball from the floor and starts picking at its frayed sutures with a frown.

‘I only got you this ball a little while ago… What have the two of you done to it?’ he grumbles. ‘Honestly, Potter, a simple mending spell would…’

‘Bobo! Magee, Layco!’ Teddy raises his hands, pointing in the vague direction of the ball in Malfoy’s hands.

Malfoy heaves an exasperated sigh.

‘Honestly, little menace. How much longer is this going to take?’ He lowers his head and brings his face in front of Teddy’s, catching his gaze. ‘Teddy, listen. Say, _Draco_.’

Teddy smacks Malfoy over the face with the unicorn and giggles.

‘Layco!’ he says.

Malfoy straightens with a resigned expression.

‘Eh. That never works.’

Harry’s mind finally goes _click_.

‘Oooh,’ he points at Malfoy. ‘ _You’re_ Layco!’

Malfoy scowls up at him.

‘Go ahead, laugh all you want. How does he pronounce the ‘r’ in _your_ name, eh?’

Harry frowns, glancing at Teddy, who turns his head back and forth to look between them as they talk. Harry never thought of this, but he’s quite sure it requires time for a child to learn the name of someone who’s a new addition to their environment. Not too long a time, he hopes.

‘He… doesn’t, really…’ Harry replies quietly.

Malfoy’s eyebrows shoot up. He pats the floor next to him and Teddy.

‘Come on, Potter, sit down with us. I’m quite sure Andy has been talking to him about you. And I simply cannot pass on the opportunity for hilarity this promises.’

Harry smiles with one side of his mouth and flops down onto the carpet. 

For a second, as he looks around, he marvels at the position he’s in - Teddy on his left, Malfoy on his right, the two people who have been sources of new happiness for him, sitting together, inviting him in. He suddenly realises that, unlike on many other occassions, this time he is not afraid that something will go wrong. He doesn’t see himself screwing things up today. Malfoy is smirking, Teddy is babbling, laughing and Harry tries to commit as much of this to memory as possible, feeling greedy for joy.

‘Teddy,’ Malfoy lowers his face again, focusing Teddy’s attention. ‘Has Harry been playing with you? Harry has been playing with the ball, hasn’t he? It’s all frayed.’

Harry knows he should be concentrating on Teddy and his response, but he can’t draw his eyes away from Malfoy’s thin mouth as it opens on the ‘a’ of Harry’s name, getting it out so quickly that Harry almost misses the exact moment. Malfoy points to him, too, every time he utters the word.

‘Shall we ask Harry to mend the ball? Maybe Harry can do it. Who knows. Stranger things have happened.’ Malfoy sends him a look askance and Harry snorts. ‘Shall I give the ball to Harry?’ Malfoy raises the ball and points to Harry. ‘Bobo for Harry? Teddy? Should I give bobo to Harry?’

Teddy looks from the ball in Malfoy’s outstretched hand to Harry, then up at Malfoy, as if pondering the issue. Harry isn’t completely sure, but he thinks he can see slivers of black and blond in Teddy’s hair as he turns his head to and fro. 

Harry wonders how to get his hands on a Pensieve after today.

‘Shall we give bobo to Harry?’ Malfoy repeats in an warm, encouraging tone, further stregthening Harry’s need to relive this dialogue. He motions in Harry’s direction with the ball. ‘To Harry?’

As Malfoy moves the ball towards Harry again, Teddy’s arm suddenly shoots out in the same direction.

‘T’ally!’ he exclaims.

Teddy is all smiles while Malfoy’s lips form a thin line as he apparently tries to retain composure.

‘Ally…?’ he asks carefully, visibly craving to hear the word again.

‘Ally!’ Teddy reiterates, poiting to Harry.

Malfoy turns towards Harry slowly and when their gazes lock, he falls into a giggling fit, throwing his head back and rocking back and forth as laughter seizes him. Teddy starts laughing alongside him and Harry just keeps looking at them, grinning, dumbfounded and amazed at the fact that these two people who are dear to him are having so much fun because of him. The fact that it’s at his expense seems to only tickle him more.

Finally, Malfoy calms down and utters one last deep sigh.

‘Well,’ he says. ‘The menace has spoken and so it shall be.’ He offers Harry the ball. ‘Will you mend the ball for us, _Ally_?’

Harry snorts.

‘Why, of course, _Layco_ , it will be my pleasure.’

On impulse, he closes the ball together with Malfoy’s outstretched hand in both of his, wrapping his palms around the soft skin of Malfoy’s bony fingers. It only takes a split second to channel his magic - Malfoy staring at their hands, Teddy babbling excitedly to the side, Harry staring at Malfoy’s face - and then the spell shimmers through his body, down his arm and into his hand, finally released against the fabric toy and Malfoy’s skin. 

Harry almost makes a comment on how, apparently, the tendency to make appreciative noises in reaction to wandless magic runs in the Black family, but then he thinks that perhaps this is not the time or the place. He decides to settle for enjoying the look of unguarded awe on Malfoy’s face before it promptly disappears.

As Harry takes his hands away, the ball is in much better shape, though by no means brand-new looking. Malfoy clears his throat and bounces the ball against Teddy’s chest, to the boy’s utter delight.

‘Not the worst piece of work, Potter.’

Harry smiles to himself.

‘Have _you_ been practising?’

Malfoy gives the ball a look, his forehead crinkling along all those familiar lines. He holds the ball out in front of himself - Teddy raises his hand trying to grab it - and after a moment of concentration he releases the ball and it flies in a circle around Teddy’s head. The boy squeals happily and turns his head to follow it with his gaze, but by then the ball is back in Malfoy’s hand and Teddy’s eyes grow wide with surprise and confusion. He grabs the ball out of Malfoy’s hands and examines it closely, first by bringing it nearer and looking at it and next by stuffing some of it into his mouth.

Malfoy shrugs.

‘Small things like that work. Keeping a spell up for longer is harder.’

Harry nods. 

‘If you’d like to practise together sometime, I’m always available,’ Harry says, trying to sound more casual than he feels the offer to be. ‘Sometime when we’re not watching a baby, preferably.’

Malfoy nods back.

‘I might take you up on that, thanks.’

Harry smiles. 

Also because it comes to his mind that this might have been one of the most mature exchanges he’s ever had. 

He looks at Teddy, who is now analysing the taste difference between a fabric ball and a unicorn tail. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Malfoy staring at Teddy too, a soft look on his face. 

The house is quiet but for Teddy’s smacking noises, the smell of a hot late afternoon seeping in through the half-open window with the view of the garden. The aspidistra by the door stands tall and steady, unperturbed by their common history. And for the first time, tentatively, Harry thinks he can feel the burden of the past become just a little bit lighter. 

Malfoy clears his throat and Harry focuses his gaze on him.

‘And if there is anything I can be of assistance with to you, I’m… here,’ Malfoy says, clearly trying not to seem flustered and failing. ‘Just wanted to put it out there.’

Harry smiles broadly. He can come up with a whole bunch of things Malfoy could be _of assistance with_. But again, not the time or the place, he supposes. He searches his mind for something he could get Malfoy to teach him in return.

‘I wouldn’t mind learning some French.’

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he realises he might not have strayed too far from his original train of thought.

Malfoy raises one eyebrow at him and smirks, but then his eyes shift to the side like he’s seriously considering the issue.

‘Have you ever learned?’

‘Nope.’

Malfoy scowls.

‘Starting at this age, you’ll sound like Madame Maxime reversed,’ he mutters.

Harry snorts a laugh.

‘Madame Maxime reversed?’

Malfoy nods sagely.

‘Yes, to the French ear, your bludgeoning of the language will sound equally atrocious.’

‘It wasn’t _that_ atrocious,’ Harry says, trying to remember.

Malfoy stares at him for a moment, incredulous. 

‘’Ow dare you?!’ he intones, raising his hand theatrically. ‘’Alf-giant? Moi? I ‘ave big bones, zat iz all!’

Harry bursts out laughing. The imitation really is quite good. Teddy giggles along, looking between them, the toys in his lap, forgotten for the time being.

‘Okay, fine. It was quite atrocious,’ Harry concedes.

‘Aay!’ Teddy chooses this moment to squeal.

Harry ruffles his hair, smiling.

‘Oh, someone’s not in the centre of attention…?’

‘Has he eaten?’ Malfoy asks.

‘A little, but then some of it landed on the sofa, so…’

Malfoy heaves a long-suffering sigh.

‘Oh, you two deserve each other, don’t you?’ He lifts himself up with a grunt and moves in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got at our disposal that will stand a chance of landing in the stomach rather than on the furniture, shall we?’ He looks over his shoulder. ‘Come on, move along, you two, chop, chop.’

Harry shakes his head, smiling. As Malfoy disappears through the door, Harry raises and picks Teddy up into his arms, the toys falling to the floor behind them. He hasn’t taken four steps yet, however, when there’s an excruciatingly painful sound in his ear.

‘Youuuu!’ Teddy squeals at the top of his lungs.

Harry stops in his tracks, squinting at the noise.

‘Me? Teddy, I don’t understand what you want.’

He tries to readjust Teddy in his arms to be able to see the boy’s face, but he turns away, insistently leaning over Harry’s shoulder.

‘Youuuu!’ he yells more urgently.

Malfoy’s head pops in through the doorway. He takes in the scene, his eyes darting across Harry, Teddy, the room. He rolls his eyes.

‘Salazar, Ally. Take the unicorn. We’re not going anywhere without the unicorn.’

Harry looks around and registers the toy that got left behind on the floor, its purple horn dark with saliva. 

‘Oh.’

As Harry walks the few steps back, Teddy’s arms extend to seemingly impossible lengths as he tries to reach the unicorn. Harry bends down, supporting Teddy as he sweeps up the toy and presses it to his chest protectively, making quiet noises.

Malfoy comes up to them and strokes Teddy’s hair with clear affection.

‘I’m sorry about that, little menace. You’ll have to forgive Ally, he’s a little slow on the uptake.’

Harry snorts. 

‘I’m pretty sure you saying my name wrong isn’t going to help him master his r’s, _Layco_.’

Malfoy gives him an amused glance, then gently lifts Teddy’s chin with one long finger.

‘Teddy. Teddy. Say, ‘unicorn’.’

Teddy babbles and shows off the squishy toy.

‘Yes, this is your unicorn,’ Malfoy confirms. ‘Unicorn. Unicorn. Teddy? Say, ‘unicorn’. Unicorn.’

‘Youuuu-nee-caa!’ Teddy suddenly exclaims happily.

Malfoy draws back, supressing a smile.

‘Good enough for now, I guess.’ He turns to leave the room.

Harry grins, hugging Teddy to his chest.

‘Your praise could melt glaciers, Layco,’ he calls at Malfoy’s back jovially.

Malfoy looks over his shoulder, smirking.

‘The menace needs a nappy change, Ally.’

***

They feed Teddy rice with dried fruit and yoghurt and some of it lands in Harry’s stomach, too. Malfoy really turns out to be a better cook than Harry and so snide comments about Harry’s attempts at breakfast-making and Malfoy’s obsession with proper measurement in potionwork fly back and forth throughout. 

Back in the living room, Harry flops down onto the sofa and from afar, he watches Malfoy and Teddy spread next to each other on the Snitch-patterned blanket among the cushions. The sun is getting lower and the sounds from the garden shift slowly towards evening. 

Malfoy is lying on his left side, leaning on his elbow, the fingers of his other hand playing with the previously _Scourgified_ tail of the unicorn that Teddy’s holding against his chest. Teddy babbles quietly, at times sounding almost as if he is telling a story and Malfoy regularly hums in confirmation, the deep low groans he makes doing something weird to Harry’s insides. Malfoy’s eyelids are heavy and he’s let his guard down so low, Harry is in awe of the peace and the calm that seem to come off him in waves. The blond hair strands get under his collar, his forehead is creased with wrinkles, his eyes are slightly glazed. He’s rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows while cooking and the edges of the Mark are visible on the forearm he’s using to support his head. As he lies on the floor, his long body creates a landscape of hilltops and valleys - up from the head down the neck and up the shoulders again, then the dip of his thin waist, then up his hip and down the long legs. The fluctuating shape drives Harry’s gaze along the lines as if on a gentle rollercoaster.

‘Someone’s getting sleepy,’ Malfoy whispers, leaning his face down to peck Teddy’s nose, then raising his eyes at Harry with a small smile.

‘No,’ Teddy says weakly and Malfoy chuckles in response.

‘Yes, time to sleep.’

‘No!’ Teddy’s body jerks in place to highlight his annoyance at the idea.

Harry looks around the floor, where maybe a dozen various toys lie strewn - a soft squishy owl, a stuffed Pigmy Puff, a dragon egg that looks plastic and definitely Muggle, a spelled fairy tale book, a Snitch-shaped toy with detachable wings, a Rubby O’Chicken, a small leather wand, a tiny broom. Harry concentrates on the image in his head and waves his hand just so. As the toys rise into the air, Teddy gasps and Malfoy yelps, immediately throwing Harry an accusatory look. Harry makes a placating ‘trust me’ gesture. He arranges the toys in a circle above them and makes them slowly move around as well as up and down a little. The fairy tale book opens and its soft spelled-in music pours into the room. Teddy’s mouth is open as he gazes up at the moving toys. After a moment, Malfoy falls onto his back next to Teddy and his eyes trail the smooth motion of the objects, too. 

Harry can feel the magic travelling through him and filling up the room. The air is heavy with it, trembling, almost shimmering. The melody from the book is slow and lullaby-like and the whole scene reminds Harry of something that he can’t exactly place. He hears Malfoy sigh and with the corner of his eye, he sees a pale long-fingered hand travel down Malfoy’s chest and then up, towards the objects in the air. Harry looks at them, too - circular, in motion - and suddenly his chest tightens and the music fades away and he can hear someone wailing, a dark cloaked shape rocking back and forth on the floor, an owl, a broom, a snitch moving above, his head hurting. His mouth is dry, his eyes sting, he’s sweating and everything aches. 

‘Potter.’

The sound is firm but not harsh. The sofa dips and Harry wills his eyes open to see Malfoy sitting next to him, Teddy clutched against his chest. The grey-blue eyes are concerned, but not fearful under the light furrowed brow.

Harry can feel something warm on his upper arm. He looks down and it turns out to be Malfoy’s hand, long fingers curling.

‘Ally.’

Harry smiles faintly.

‘You okay?’

He nods. He feels the tension leaving his chest, his muscles unclenching, Malfoy’s unrelenting touch like an anchor that connects him to the here and now. He takes a deep breath and rubs his eyes, trying to clear his mind.

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,’ he says quietly. ‘Just a… a particularly bad memory snuck up on me… I think.’ 

He looks to the side to see Malfoy silently watching him, face open. For a moment, he marvels at how amazing it feels to be given a choice so easily, so naturally, so effortlessly. A choice to speak or to keep quiet, a choice to share or to keep private. It feels so good to have the choice. 

‘I, erm… I think I saw the night my parents died… yeah, I think it’s because I had a mobile over my crib… I, I suppose I triggered it for myself just now, putting all the… you know, putting the stuff up.’

Malfoy’s forehead furrows further.

‘How could you possibly remember that? A mobile over your crib…?’

Harry sighs and rubs his face.

‘Erm… I don’t, not really. I mean… it was someone else’s memory… Snape showed me his memory from that night.’ 

Malfoy’s eyebrows lift slowly, then his gaze darts to the side and wanders around the room, unseeing. Harry watches him, but there’s no telling what Malfoy’s thinking. His half-turned face changes expression - bewildered, hurt, amazed, angry - until finally he shuts his eyes. Harry follows suit. After a while, he feels the pressure on the sofa shifting again and the next thing he knows, he’s being embraced with one of Malfoy’s arms, at least as much as is possible with a child squirming between them. He can feel the arm go across his back and down, the hand landing and curling around the ribs on his other side. Warmth.

Harry freezes, trying to remember everything about this moment.

Malfoy’s hair tickles Harry’s neck.

‘Fuck, Potter,’ Malfoy whispers almost inaudibly somewhere next to Harry’s ear. ‘Every single time I think I have finally figured out why you’re so royally fucked up…’

Harry chokes out a laugh. As Malfoy draws away, they smile at each other and Harry realises he can feel the healing process happening again.

***

Some time later, they’re all lying on the floor of Teddy’s room, just next to the crib, in a makeshift nest of blankets and pillows. Harry is on his back, Teddy to his right, his head resting on Harry’s chest, a small arm flung across it. Malfoy is on Teddy’s other side, looking at them both with an expression that, in Harry’s opinion, could be interpreted either as happy or as sly. Possibly both.

The days are long and the sun is still up, so they’ve spelled the windows dark. The ceiling is permanently spelled to be a map of the sky, different constellations lighting up on it here and there, stars shooting. The room is small and cozy. Teddy’s toys are stored in two chests against one of the walls, there’s a half-empty bookcase and a few shelves with some every-day use objects. Up on the wall above their heads, an electric fixture in the shape of a crescent moon gives off a muted, soft yellow light.

‘Teddy, what would you like to read?’ Harry asks.

Teddy smacks his lips and yawns.

‘Teddy? Which book? Hup the Crup?’

‘Hup Clup!’ Teddy immediately echoes, raising his head from Harry’s chest with some effort.

‘Of course,’ Malfoy mutters like it’s the biggest nuisance he has ever had to endure.

Harry smiles.

‘Come on, Layco. _Accio_ it for us, will you?’

Malfoy scoffs.

‘What a pathetic excuse to watch me do wandless magic.’

‘Methinks someone’s projecting,’ Harry replies with a smile as the book lands over his groin. He picks it up to the accompaniament of Teddy’s happy but sleepy sounds and opens it to the first page, pulling his knees up and setting the book on his stomach.

The book reminds Harry of Muggle pop-up books, but the magic that’s spelled into it makes it something more of an animated film. The flat background is beautifully drawn, with high attention to detail and in a soft but vivid colour palette. Some elements start moving as soon as the book is opened - birds fly far away in the sky at the top, an owl swoops across the page carrying a message, a frog hops into a puddle. Soft music starts playing quietly in the background and other sounds join in - the hoot of the owl, the splashing of the water. Rising from the page are cut-out shapes of a house, a kennel, a tree, a bird on one of the branches, grass, flowers, a fence. These are the ones that are going to start moving, acting out the story as soon as he starts reading the text. There are a few more elements hiding behind others, too, waiting their turn. The first time around, Harry himself squealed like a one year old when Hup the Crup appeared from inside the kennel.

Harry clears his throat and starts to read, though he knows the story by heart anyway.

 _There once was a Crup_  
_Who frolicked since he woke up_  
_He was well-known all around_  
_As Hup, Hup the Crup._

Early morning birds start chirping as Hup curls out from inside the kennel and stretches first his front, then his hind legs, wagging his forked tail excitedly. The bird crows at him and Hup runs to the tree to bark up at it. The grass moves under his paws and the tree branches wobble in the wind. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion, smooth and lazy. As Harry reads, Teddy chimes in in a sleepy voice here and there, supplying a syllable or a word that follows. As the first verse ends, the page turns on its own, displaying the next scene.

 _Hup was a naughty pup_  
_Who wanted not to grow up_  
_He wanted to have his fun_  
_And he would not let up._

The small paper dog is shown in the middle of a sunlit meadow, forest trees in the background. Hup’s chasing first his own tail, then the butterflies that fly over the page, orange, yellow and purple. The room fills with the sounds of grasshoppers and cuckoos. Teddy raises a small hand and traces one of the butterflies in the air with his index finger.

 _Hup really liked to act up_  
_Fun time was never up_  
_He’d often ravage the garden_  
_To see what he’d dig up._

They now see the back of the house in the background and the garden that rises from the page - tomato plants, carrots, beans, a gnome hiding in the bushes. As Harry reads, Hup digs holes in the page, making some of the pop-ups fall and sending brown paper confetti flying all around from under his paws. Some of it lands on Harry’s chest and Teddy tries to grab it clumsily with his fingers. As the verse ends and the page turns, all the paper elements are sucked back between the closing pages.

The last page shows Crup first digging himself into a deep hole, then being _Wingardium Leviosa_ ’d out of it, paws flailing. 

_And one day Hup the Crup_  
_Dug till his strength got used up_  
_They pulled him out of the hole_  
_For Hup, it was quite a hiccup._

‘You know that’s not how you pronounce ‘hiccup’, right?’ Malfoy says quietly.

Harry glances at Malfoy to see him smirking.

‘I do. But it doesn’t work with the rhyme otherwise.’

‘Well, you’re teaching him wrong.’

Harry rolls his eyes.

‘Oh, right, of course, I apologise, I will only speak properly in front of him from now on, _Draco_.’

Harry holds Draco’s soft gaze until a small hand pats his chest.

‘Ag’an,’ Teddy says sleepily.

‘Time for sleep, Teddy,’ Harry replies.

‘Ag’an,’ Teddy says weakly, yawning. 

Malfoy shuffles a bit closer and reaches out his right hand to open the book back to the page with the meadow. The soft music continues on a loop and the room fills with the sounds of the forest. While he tangles his left hand softly into Teddy’s hair, his right hovers over the book and, acting on impulse again, Harry uses the moment of hesitation to take hold of it, weave their fingers together and rest both their hands gently on his own stomach. Malfoy glances at him and Harry raises his eyebrows, a silent question. Malfoy smiles almost imperceptibly and his hand stays where it is. He bends his head down to peck Teddy’s head and his left hand strokes the light brown locks with soft repetitive motions.

‘Sleep, cuddle bunny, you’re safe,’ Draco whispers, his voice almost lost in the music and the chirping that permeate the room.

***

As they put up the monitoring spells and quietly leave Teddy’s room, Harry feels a little light-headed and dazed. 

Just about a week ago, he dreamt up this exact situation and here he’s been granted its fulfillment. One part of him wonders how long it will last. Another part of him insists that he hasn’t been ‘granted’ anything, that he should know better by now. He knew what he wanted, he made wise choices, he created a reality where it all became possible. Still, he’d like to be able to fully enjoy the moment rather than try to figure out the price to pay…

‘You’re hurting your brain again, Potter,’ Malfoy drawls.

Harry follows Malfoy into the living room, sighing and hanging his head, his gaze lingering on Malfoy’s behind before he turns around to sit on the sofa. Harry flops down next to him, noticing they’ve automatically sat down to face each other.

‘How do you know me so well?’ Harry sighs.

Malfoy shakes his head.

‘I don’t, Harry. I really don’t.’

Silence stretches between them for a while and Harry tries to get out of his own head. He pretends to be fidgeting with his clothes and checks the list is still in his back pocket.

Communication. No assumptions. Questions. Autonomy. 

Here’s his chance to ask Malfoy all the things he’s been restless about - the bathroom thing, the dangerous thing… How should he start?

I-messages, expressing needs, accepting vulnerability, allowing the possibility of rejection…

Malfoy heaves a deep sigh.

‘There’s something I’d like to explain,’ he announces suddenly. ‘Now that we don’t have a babbling spawn to distract us…’ He takes a deep breath and looks Harry straight in the eye. ‘Last time we met, we drank too much and I proceeded to say things that most probably deserved to be said at a different time and place. I imagine some of it might have been quite unintelligible and confusing to you, especially considering that you apparently like torturing your brain, and so in relation to that, there are some things I’d like to say.’ Harry gazes into Malfoy’s serious face with wide eyes. ‘Firstly, yes, the time you followed me into the bathroom in sixth year was a very dark time for me. I do not wish to delve into it at this point, but I would like to say that I have moved on since then, so if you worry, let me just say that there is no need to. Do with this information what you will. Secondly,’ Malfoy takes a deep breath again, ‘when I said you were _dangerous_ , what I actually had in mind was that _I_ have always lost control of myself around you. In the past, you rubbed me the wrong way and now I don’t know which way you… I mean, fuck, what I mean is…’ As Harry bites down on his lip in order to stop a chuckle from escaping, Malfoy covers his eyes with his hand and raises the index finger of the other one at Harry. ‘Don’t you dare laugh, Potter.’

‘I’m not laughing,’ Harry says weakly, his mouth spread wide in a grin, thinking forward to an imagined time in the future when he’s able to release the tension of an embarrassing moment like this by giving this astounding person a kiss.

Malfoy drops his hand and gives Harry a half-smiling, half-tired look.

‘What I mean is, this is my problem, not yours and I’m taking care of it.’

Harry nods, feeling completely flabbergasted at the developments of the day.

Malfoy sighs for the third time.

‘And the last thing is, I have decided to avoid drinking alcohol. In general, but especially with you. This relates firstly to the previous argument and secondly, I have recently found the drunk state generally incompatible with my current need for agency, which I don’t feel comfortable giving up. So. If you feel this redefines the rules of,’ Malfoy motions between the two of them, ‘this to an extent which you’re not ready to accept, then I understand…’

‘Hey,’ Harry cuts in, raising his hand and going for a light, flippant tone. ‘If what we’re competing at now is effective communication, then let me point out that if you had asked me a question about the drinking thing, you would have avoided making the erroneous assumption that there is a conflict of interest here.’

Malfoy stares at him for a few seconds.

‘I think you’ve taken this one step too far because I have _no_ idea what you’re talking about.’

Harry makes a mock-disappointed sound.

‘I’ve recently made the very same decision to give up drinking,’ he supplies.

Malfoy hums in surprise, glancing at him with interest.

‘And thank you for saying all of that,’ Harry says quietly. ‘I needed to know that.’

Malfoy nods.

‘You’re really good at this,’ Harry continues.

‘Oh, fuck off, Potter.’ 

Malfoy shifts on the sofa, looking away, but Harry thinks he can see a small smile.

At this exact moment Harry hears the front door open and a few moments later, Andromeda appears in the doorway, two shopping bags levitating behind her. She’s wearing a set of light brown and blue robes, which, Harry notices, are much more creased and wrinkled than when she was leaving a few hours ago. 

‘Oh, my boys have multiplied while I was gone, I see,’ she says cheerfully.

Malfoy gives Andy a once over and gets up from the sofa to approach her. They embrace for a longer moment and Harry thinks he can hear whispering. When they draw apart, Malfoy watches Andy’s face intently and she nods her head calmly, a warm smile on her lips, and squeezes his hands in hers. Then her grin widens as she looks between the two of them.

‘It feels good to have the full set at home, you know? Let’s do this more often.’


	9. Chapter 9

_You have two hands. One to help yourself, the other to help others.  
\- Audrey Hepburn_

As they hug Andy goodbye - Malfoy’s embrace accompanied by some more whispering - and walk down the steps and into the front garden, the smell of the roses is dizzying, the air thick and heavy. The sun is low, casting soft light on the red, pink and white flowers. It’s an early spring evening, warm, golden and fragrant and the world looks inviting.

Harry, however, quickly gets distracted.

Malfoy is leading the way along the path meandering the rose bushes.

You would think that after rolling on the floor, burping a baby, changing nappies and comforting someone through an anxiety attack, one would look at least slightly dishevelled. 

Not Malfoy though. And the more Harry keeps staring, the less he can wrap his head around how Malfoy’s grey trousers can still be as casually smart, as well-fitting, as smooth as they wrap themselves around Malfoy’s arse.

Suddenly, Malfoy stops and it’s all Harry can do to twist his body in such a way as to avoid plastering his groin against said body part. The points of contact he does make shoot through his consciousness in a hot wave - hip, thigh, elbow, ribs, foot, shoulder - before he jerks away.

‘Argh, Potter!’ Malfoy takes a step back, massaging his right side.

‘I’m sorry!’

‘Watch it,’ Malfoy says without heat.

‘I said I was sorry, I didn’t notice you’d stopped,’ Harry replies a bit pathetically. ‘You okay?’

Malfoy nods, his eyes searching Harry’s face.

‘Stupid Potter?’ Harry offers.

Malfoy snorts and turns to look around the garden.

‘Why did you?’

‘Huh?’

‘Why’d you stop?’

‘Oh, well…’ Malfoy pauses, puts his hands into his pockets and Harry concentrates on not letting his eyes wander. ‘The roses, they, erm… made me remember something…’ For a moment, Malfoy seems distant and Harry watches him, waiting, until Malfoy speaks. ‘My mother would like them.’

Silence stretches between them, broken by the chirping of a single cricket or faint voices in the distance. Harry would love to know what that means, why Narcissa is unable to enjoy Andy’s garden, he would love to ask to be granted the trust to get to know and he would gladly lift whatever burden Malfoy’s carrying off his shoulders and onto Harry’s own. But he reins himself in. 

_Give people what they need, not what you think is best for them,_ he remembers Healer Averill say.

How is it that Malfoy is so self-sufficient? Harry has been dragged out of every single episode by someone who was there, willing to put in the effort - Luna, Healer Averill, Hermione, Ron, Kreacher and Malfoy himself… He wouldn’t have managed without all those amazing people to lean on. Malfoy, on the other hand, makes a point out of keeping things in, refusing help - does he really not need it? Or does he have a support system Harry simply isn’t aware of? Luna? Andy? Narcissa? 

_Ask questions._

‘Erm… is there, erm… anything I can do?’ he asks in a quiet tone.

Malfoy glances at him, his lips quirked up in a small smile.

‘I’ll let you know if there is, Ally,’ he replies.

‘You promise?’

Malfoy nods.

‘I do,’ Malfoy nods. ‘And on that note, I _am_ counting on that wandless magic session.’

Harry tilts his head with a grin.

‘In exchange for a French language class, Layco.’

‘Right.’ Malfoy smiles back and half-turns towards the street. ‘Apparition point?’

‘Mhm,’ Harry confirms.

They walk out the gate and turn left into the narrow suburban street. They pass small detached houses on both sides, some with unkempt front gardens, some hidden behind tall hedges. Harry puts his hands into his pockets and he’s acutely aware of his left upper arm brushing against Malfoy’s right every other step.

‘Want to set a date?’

Malfoy gives Harry a look, his eyebrows raised.

‘Well, look at you, Potter, a date? A proper date? Your reputation of an easy tart is not entirely true, after all.’ 

Malfoy smirks and Harry knows this is a joke, he knows, but his heart starts hammering anyway. How is it that at a night club it’s so easy for him to get into the cocky mode to get what he wants yet when it’s Malfoy joking about _a date_ , Harry’s mind goes completely blank.

Malfoy clears his throat.

‘I mean, yes, let’s say… I was planning on visiting Andy and Teddy on Friday after work. So how about a round of babysitting followed by a round of educational activity?’

Harry tries to smile at Malfoy as unsuspiciously as possible.

‘Sounds great,’ he says in a voice that is just a little higher than normal.

They walk in silence for a while, following the intersecting identical-looking streets. Harry’s aware that they both know very well they could just take cover and _Apparate_ from basically anywhere, as there’s rarely another person in sight, and yet they have decided to… go for a walk together, it seems. 

Does Malfoy enjoy going for walks? Does he do that often? Does he have people to go with on a regular basis? Or does he lack company?

‘So… how long have you been friends with Luna?’ Harry asks, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Malfoy glances at him and Harry sends him a small, encouraging smile. It takes a few more seconds for Malfoy to speak.

‘We date back to the dark times of her, and you, and many people in general being held prisoner in the Manor dungeons. We started spending time together after the trials. She has,’ Malfoy trails off for a moment, looking into the distance, ‘a stunning quality about her. A centredness, a kind of ability for self-validation I find astounding. It’s as if on the one hand, she doesn’t need anyone’s input, she has no needs in regards to other people, her identity is her own, built from within, impervious, and at the same time she welcomes and values interaction with… anyone.’

Suddenly it becomes very clear why Malfoy gets along with Luna.

Harry nods.

‘An inclusive kind of autonomy. Is that what you aspire to?’

Malfoy scoffs.

‘I don’t think I could ever get as far as she does. But being around her makes me remember it’s worthwhile to try.’ 

Harry hums in affirmation and keeps looking straight ahead. He’s convinced that if he were to look at Malfoy now, he would do something he would very soon be made to regret. Like grab and lift him up into the air in a bear hug. Or fall to his knees in front of him in the middle of a suburban area. Or press their foreheads together while carding his fingers through the soft blond hair…

‘You have been introduced to the rainbow pet, I assume?’

‘Huh?’ Harry shakes himself internally.

‘The Streeler. The snail? Have you two been acquainted?’

‘Oh. Yes. Yes, we were. Slimy. Spikey.’

‘Mhm, now imagine explaining why you’re bringing it into the country via Portkey as a former Death Eater still on probation.’

Intrigued, Harry finally looks at Malfoy. His face is soft and relaxed and his eyes are bright, blue flickering in grey irises. He narrows his eyes against a ray of sunshine that shines on them from between two houses. His pale skin is golden and smooth but for his forehead, which is creased with the wrinkles that Harry now finds comfort in.

‘You mean… you got it for her in France?’

‘I’m exaggerating, it isn’t illegal or anything of this kind, it had all the certificates and so on, so they didn’t have much to go on but yes, just because it was in my hands, it was assumed to be a dark creature at first. The rainbow coat didn’t help.’ Malfoy smirks and Harry can’t help but smile back. ‘It was right after the Manor was claimed. I was in desperate need of a job and with zero prospects and Luna worked hard to not only help me find something, but make it something I enjoy doing and do well.’

‘Potion-making,’ Harry says quietly.

Malfoy nods.

‘She’d mentioned Streelers before and that she wanted one as a pet and they aren’t generally easy to find. When I walked into that pet shop where I got Tony… Well, I walked in intending to only get some information and instead I got not one, but two animals.’ Malfoy shakes his head.

Suddenly an image flashes through Harry’s head - a corridor floor, a slimy trail, a painting low on a wall, him on his knees, the snail changing colours - but as quickly as it appeared, it goes hazy, escaping Harry’s grasp.

‘Huh,’ he says. ‘I think I might have dreamed about it once.’

‘About the Streeler?’

‘Yeah… I was following it on my knees, I think.’

‘Well, that’s not weird at all,’ Malfoy deadpans.

Harry chuckles.

‘I think I had more crazy dreams that night because of a potion Kreacher slipped into my food to _help me sleep_.’

‘Hmm. Might have been the Delusion Brew, but this one doesn’t usually get you a good night’s sleep…’ Malfoy muses.

‘No idea what it was, only that it came from, and I quote,’ Harry clears his throat and continues in an official tone, ‘ _the grand potion supply of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black in the basement._ ’

Instantly, he feels a tug on his left arm and he realises Malfoy has stopped dead. The long pale fingers of his right hand are now wrapped around Harry’s inner elbow and he’s staring at Harry with wide eyes.

‘Oh,’ Harry says faintly, glancing from Malfoy’s hand to his face and back. ‘I s’ppose that’s something that would be of interest to you. Also considering it’s your family heritage, after all…’ 

He can’t believe he didn’t think of this before - there’s this indisputable link between them in the form of Grimmauld Place and its history and all at once Harry can see Malfoy walking the downstairs corridor, sipping tea in the kitchen, studying the Black family tapestry and lounging in front of the fireplace. In Harry’s mind’s eye, he looks so at home. He would know what to do with the place, how to look after an old house like that. It should belong to him, really. He has been cast away from his own home and he’s doing everything he can to make ends meet while Harry pukes into ornate fruit bowls in a house much too big for him alone, all on a Ministry our-favourite-murderer benefit…

‘Oi, Potter.’

Malfoy’s words cut through the ringing in Harry’s ears as fingers snap in front of his face. While he’s trying to get his eyes to focus, he feels the warmth of the hand wrapped around his left lower arm.

‘Don’t go crazy on me now, Ally,’ Malfoy says in a softer voice. ‘You need to concentrate.’

Harry takes a deep breath and looks into Malfoy’s warm, open face.

‘I do…?’

‘You do,’ Malfoy replies matter-of-factly. ‘Otherwise you’re going to get us Splinched as you _Apparate_ us to your basement.’

Harry doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry with joy or pinch himself. He takes another deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment. The fingers on his lower arm move minutely, as if starting to stroke and then halting self-consciously. 

He needs to pull himself together. Malfoy wants to visit him. Or rather, visit his potions supply, but Harry’s not going to be picky. He is not going to stand in the way of the two of them behaving like two adult people. He opens his eyes.

Malfoy’s watching him, head tilted slightly to the side, one eyebrow raised, a small smile on his lips. Harry smiles back.

‘I would like to express my happiness about the fact that I can offer you something you have communicated your need for,’ he says solemnly.

‘I bet you would,’ Malfoy nods, amused.

Harry looks around and spots a small path between the hedges of two of the houses on their left.

‘There?’ He jerks his head in this direction.

Malfoy follows his gaze and nods, his hand starting to relax on Harry’s arm. Harry grabs his fingers with his other hand and keeps them in place, dragging Malfoy towards the path. They slip between the tall bushes and Harry sputters as single strands of spiderweb land on his face. He leads them a few steps further until they are well hidden from view and looks around one more time before making eye contact with Malfoy again.

‘Ready?’

Malfoy’s thin fingers tense around Harry’s arm and there is a wild look in his eyes as he nods. Harry truly hopes Kreacher didn’t get anything mixed up and there really _is_ a grand potion supply in his basement. It’s not like he had the need to actually go and check… He wouldn’t want Malfoy to get excited for nothing…

‘You know, erm, just to be clear… I’m not really sure it’s there, the supply, I haven’t seen it myself. It’s just Kreacher who…’

‘Potter,’ Malfoy interrupts in a cutting tone. ‘I swear to Salazar, if you don’t shut up right now and move our arses, I am going to personally…’

They land in the kitchen to the clutter of pots and pans hitting the stone floor and Kreacher’s big round eyes. As he apparently registers the guest in the room, his long floppy ears slowly draw back, his eyes getting a watery kind of expression and for a moment he looks like a puppy just a second before the joy gets too strong to contain. Malfoy shifts to Harry’s side, dropping his hands and brushing off his shirt and Harry watches Kreacher, fascinated, waiting for the outburst.

It doesn’t come, however. Instead, Kreacher straightens his back and with a wave of his hand, collects the pots from the floor, piles them while they fly across the room and sits them on one of the open shelves. He then paces around the table, moving in a way Harry would perhaps chance at calling graceful, stands right in front of Malfoy, clears his throat and bows so low that the grey hair spurting from his ears touches the floor.

‘Kreacher welcomes the most venerable descendant of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Kreacher is at Young Master’s service.’

Harry snorts.

‘It’s like I’m not even here anymore,’ he mutters, but he can’t hold off the grin.

Malfoy raises his chin and nods once.

‘Your loyalty has been duly noted, elf. Now, we would like to visit the Black family potion supply. I have been informed you are familiar with its location. I hope that is true. I wouldn’t want to find myself in your skin otherwise. Lead the way.’

‘Wooow,’ Harry comments quietly. ‘It’s like we’ve gone back in time and I can’t stand to hear you speak again.’

‘Yes, Young Master, Kreacher knows. Kreacher will show Young Master, certainly, Kreacher will show, please follow Kreacher…’

As Kreacher bows back down and starts walking backwards, bent in half, Harry gets a well-aimed elbow between his ribs.

‘Watch and learn, Potter,’ Malfoy leans in to speak quietly. ‘This is how you do this with old elves. They expect you to act dry and stern, it feels familiar and safe to them. What, would you expect them to change for you? That’s quite disrespectful, don’t you think?’

Harry stares into the grey eyes - so close, specs of blue dancing - astounded, because what Malfoy says makes quite a bit of sense and he needs to be near this amazing tosser.

‘You coming, Ally?’ Malfoy follows Kreacher and winks over his shoulder.

That tosser.

Harry follows them numbly across the kitchen and down the narrow flight of stairs into the basement. Kreacher is lighting the way with a gas lamp he’s carrying. A ring of heavy rusty keys, some the size of the elf’s own forearm, jingles in his other hand. Harry dislikes the musty smell that’s already reaching his nostrils and he tries to focus on Malfoy, who’s looking around, intrigued, although the bare walls provide nothing to look at yet.

They stop for a moment as Kreacher unlocks the weathered wooden door at the bottom of the stairs. It opens with a painful creak and they enter the main basement room, which looks somewhat familiar when Kreacher lights up the few working gas lamps. It’s quite big, filled with old furniture and all kinds of curiosities piling right up to the ceiling in the corners, walls lined with shelves heavy with books, candlesticks, broken vases, folded pieces of fabric, bowls, owl cages and objects whose purpose Harry wouldn’t even try and guess at. 

Some time ago he went through a period of decluttering the house - as he later established during one of his sessions with Healer Averill, it most probably was a - not entirely useless - coping mechanism working along the lines of ‘I can’t put my life in order, but these objects won’t put up similar resistance, so I’ll take care of them instead.’ He recognizes an old rocking chair he brought down, along with some sheets and blankets. He knows there’s a small pantry here, just to the left of the door leading back upstairs, but he has never noticed any other exits and there is no _grand potion supply_ in sight.

Malfoy is moving around the room slowly, mesmerized, long fingers brushing this and that object gently, but never picking anything up.

‘We shouldn’t stall,’ Harry says. ‘I’m not sure about the status of ventilation in here and with the old gas lamps…’

‘Kreacher will lead to the Black family grand potion supply room, Young Master,’ Kreacher cuts in, looking at Malfoy.

Harry sighs and folds his arms, looking around. Kreacher moves towards the wall opposite the door and waves at a large old wooden wardrobe. Its double doors creak open and Harry can’t see inside from where he’s standing, but he thinks he can hear Malfoy make some kind of a purring sound. He takes a few steps, craning his neck and sees that the wardrobe doesn’t have a back wall but instead provides a low narrow passage into a dark space beyond. He stands next to Malfoy.

‘Huh,’ Harry says. ‘Who would have thought.’

Malfoy turns his head and stares at him for a moment, then back at the wardrobe.

‘You Muggles can be so oblivious sometimes,’ he heaves an exaggerated sigh.

Harry huffs, but can’t deny even after everything he’s seen in his life, a secret passage in an old piece of furniture still surprises him.

Kreacher starts climbing into the wardrobe, lighting the way.

‘Guess we’re off to Narnia,’ Harry mutters to himself.

‘Narnia?’ Malfoy asks.

Harry smirks, turns his head to look at him for a moment, then back straight ahead.

‘You wizards can be so oblivious sometimes,’ he sighs.

Malfoy chokes out a laugh and Harry catches his eyes and smiles.

Malfoy goes through first and before Harry sets foot inside, a long intake of breath reaches his ears.

‘Merlin’s saggy left testicle…’

‘As Kreacher promised Young Master, the grand potion supply of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,’ Kreacher announces. 

Harry hits his head on the low passageway and tumbles inside, hissing and massaging his head. When he lifts his gaze from the floor, he’s in a narrow room with rows of shelves covering the walls on the left and on the right, and on them - jars, bottles, phials, cauldrons, scales, pouches, books, bowls, spoons, knives, most rusted and all covered with a thick layer of dust that makes Harry feel as if there’s not enough air in the room. 

Kreacher waves his lamp-bearing hand and a glowing orb lights up over their heads, providing a bright light source and at Harry’s side, Malfoy gasps. The room seems to stretch impossibly forward, the shelves getting smaller and smaller in the distance until they fade into black and when Harry raises his head, it turns out the shelves go up and up for what seems like dozens of metres and there is no ceiling in view. 

‘This,’ Malfoy says slowly, his head tilted back as he stares upwards, ‘might just be one of the best moments of my life, Harry.’

Harry’s interest in the room is immediately lost as he looks into Malfoy’s face, an incredible lightness and warmth overtaking his insides. Malfoy’s eyes are bright and in the light of the orb above they make Harry think of molten silver. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is in disarray as he runs his hand through it, pulling it back so that it doesn’t fall into his eyes as he looks around. He paces across the narrow room, picking up phials and searching for labels, running his fingertips along bookspines and casting identification spells, smiling to himself and humming, looking as if he’s constantly walking the line between childlike giddiness and professional absorption. Finally he stops, his eyes land on Harry and he comes up to him, his arms raising slightly. Harry grasps them and they freeze face to face, holding each other’s forearms. As Malfoy shifts, Harry’s knuckles brush the sides of his stomach.

‘Could I possibly…’ Malfoy starts and trails off, looking confused or maybe embarrassed, his gaze dropping. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you… that is…’

Harry inhales the dusty air and squeezes Malfoy’s arms a little tighter. All of a sudden, he doesn’t feel like he needs to know more. If there is something to learn, he will wait. For now what seems to be the most important thing is the happiness he can bring to this amazing tosser. 

‘Go ahead, do whatever you like with this stuff,’ he says.

Malfoy stares into his eyes, his breathing shallow, his fingers digging into Harry’s skin like claws.

‘Thank you,’ he replies quietly. 

Harry smiles.

‘Come on, Kreacher, we’ll make Young Master some tea for when he gets tired and starts coughing the dust out,’ he says cheerfully, turning towards the main room.

‘Young Master holds on to the keys,’ Kreacher murmurs from behind him as the keys jingle. ‘This room, Young Master can lock and unlock by simply wishing it so in front of the wardrobe, as Young Master is a Black, and so the house will recognise him.’

Harry lingers in the passageway, letting Kreacher through first with the lamp.

‘Oh, so _I_ can’t open the potions room, can I?’ he asks in a light tone.

‘No, Master can’t,’ Kreacher hisses.

‘Oh, and _I’m_ Master and he’s _Young_ Master? He’s older than me, Kreacher!’

Kreacher mutters something under his breath while Harry chuckles, looking back at Malfoy.

‘You okay to stay here by yourself?’

‘Yes, but I can’t stay long today… But thank you. Again.’

They look at each other for a moment longer and Harry realises he’s feeling exceptionally good.

‘You’re welcome,’ he says simply, smiles and turns.


End file.
